I.  Youth  &  Egolatry 

By  Pio  Baroja 


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YOUTH 
AND  EGOLATRY 


BOOKS  BY  P10  BAROJA 


THE  FREE-LANCE  BOOKS 

Edited  with  Introductions 
BY  H.  L.  MENCKEN 

I   YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 

BY  Pio  BAROJA 

II  VENTURES  IN   COMMON  SENSE 

BY  E.  W.  HOWE 

III  THE  ANTICHRIST 

BY  F.  W.  NIETZSCHE 

IV  WE  MODERNS 

BY  EDWIN  Mum 
Other   volumes   in   preparation. 

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ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  PUBLISHER 


THE  FREE  LANCE  BOOKS.    I 

EDITED  WITH  INTRODUCTIONS  BY  H.  L.  MENCKEN 

YOUTH 

AND  EGOLATRY 

By  Pfo  BAROJA 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  SPANISH 

By  JACOB  S.  FASSETT,  Jr. 
and  FRANCES  L.  PHILLIPS 


NEW  YORK  ALFRED  •  A  -  KNOPF  MCMXX 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


FEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


College 
Library 

PS 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION  BY  H.  L.  MENCKEN,  11 
PROLOGUE,  21 

ON  INTELLECTUAL  LOVE,  23 
EGOTISM,  24 

I.    FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS,  29 
The  bad  man  of  Itzea,  29 
Humble  and  a  wanderer,  30 
Dogmatophagy,  32 
Ignoramus,  Ignorabimus,  33 
Nevertheless,  we  call  ourselves  materialists,  34 
In  defense  of  religion,  35 
Arch-European,  36 
Dionysus  or  Apollonian?  37 
Epicuri  de  grege  porcum,  38 
Evil  and  Rousseau's  Chinaman,  39 
The  root  of  disinterested  evil,  41 
Music  as  a  sedative,  43 
Concerning  Wagner,  44 
Universal  musicians,  46 
The  folk  song,  47 
On  the  optimism  of  eunuchs,  48 

II.    MYSELF,  THE  WRITER,  50 

To  my  readers  thirty  years  hence,  50 
Youthful  writings,  51 

The  beginning  and  end  of  the  journey,  52 
Mellowness  and  the  critical  sense,  53 
Sensibility,  54 


1053518 


CONTENTS 


On  devouring  one's  own  God,  55 

Anarchism,  56 

New  paths,  59 

Longing  for  change,  60 

Baroja,  you  will  never   amount  to  anything 

(A  Refrain),  61 
The  patriotism  of  desire,  64 
My  home  lands,  66 
Cruelty  and  stupidity,  67 
The  anterior  image,  68 
The  tragi-comedy  of  sex,  70 
The  veils  of  the  sexual  life,  74 
A  little  talk,  76 
The  sovereign  crowd,  79 
The  remedy,  80 

III.  THE  EXTRARADIUS,  81 
Rhetoric  and  anti-rhetoric,  81 
The  rhythm  of  style,  83 
Rhetoric  of  the  minor  key,  85 
The  value  of  my  ideas,  88 
Genius  and  admiration,  88 

My  literary  and  artistic  inclinations,  91 

My  library,  92 

On  being  a  gentleman,  94 

Giving  offence,  96 

Thirst  for  glory,  99 

Elective  antipathies,  102 

To  a  member  of  several  academies,  105 

IV.  ADMIRATIONS  AND  INCOMPATIBILITIES,  107 
Cervantes,  Shakespeare,  Moliere,  107 
The  encyclopedists,  109 

The  romanticists,  111 
The  naturalists,  113 
The  Spanish  realists,  114 
—  6  — 


CONTENTS 


The  Russians,  115 
The  critics,  116 

V.    THE  PHILOSOPHERS,  119 

VI.    THE  HISTORIANS,  122 

The  Roman  historians,  124 

Modern  and  contemporary  historians,  127 

VII.    MY  FAMILY,  130 

Family  mythology,  130 
Our  History,  134 

VIII.    MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD,  139 
San  Sebastian,  139 
My  parents,  143 
Monsignor,  the  cat,  145 
Two  lunatics,  146 
The  hawk,  147 
In  Madrid,  148 
In  Pamplona,  149 
Don  Tirso  Larequi,  150 
A  visionary  rowdy,  152 
Sarasate,  154 

Robinson  Crusoe  and  the  Mysterious  Island, 
155 

IX.    As  A  STUDENT,  157 

Professors,  160 
Anti-militarism,  163 
To  Valencia,  166 

X.    As  A  VILLAGE  DOCTOR,  168 
Dolores,  La  Sacristana,  170 

XI.    As  A  BAKER,  172 

My  father's  disillusionment,  175 


CONTENTS 


Industry  and  democracy,  176 

The  vexations  of  a  small  tradesman,  178 

XII.    As  A  WRITER,  182 
Bohemia,  183 
Our  own  generation,  183 
Azorin,  185 
Paul  Schmitz,  186 
Ortega  y  Gasset,  188 
A  pseudo-patron,  190 

XIII.  PARISIAN  DAYS,  194 
Estevanez,  194 

My  versatility  according  to  Bonafoux,  196 

XIV.  LITERARY  ENMITIES,  198 
The  enmity  of  Dicenta,  198 

The  posthumous  enmity  of  Sawa,  200 
Semi-hatred  on  the  part  of  Silverio  Lanza,  204 

XV.    THE  PRESS,  209 

Our  newspapers  and  periodicals,  209 
Our  journalists,  211 
Americans,  215 

XVI.    POLITICS,  219 

Votes  and  applause,  220 

Politicians,  221 

Revolutionists,  224 

Lerroux,  225 

An  offer,  228 

Socialists,  230 

Love  of  the  workingman,  231 

The  conventionalist  Barriovero,  232 

Anarchists,  233 

—  8  — 


CONTENTS 


The  morality  of  the  alternating  party  system, 

234 

On  obeying  the  law,  235 
The  sternness  of  the  law,  238 

XVII.    MILITARY  GLORY,  240 

The  old-time  soldier,  241 

Down  goes  prestige,  242 

Science  and  the  picturesque,  243 

What  we  need  today,  245 

Our  armies,  246 

A  word  from  Kuroki,  the  Japanese,  249 

EPILOGUE,  250 

Palinode  and  fresh  outburst  of  ire,  253 

APPENDICES 

Spanish    politicians    on    Baroja's    anarchists 

note,  259 

Spanish  politicians,  261 
On  Baroja's  anarchists,  263 
Note,  265 


9  — 


INTRODUCTION 

Pio  Baroja  is  a  product  of  the  intellectual 
reign  of  terror  that  went  on  in  Spain  after 
the  catastrophe  of  1898.  That  catastrophe,  of 
course,  was  anything  but  unforeseen.  The  na- 
tional literature,  for  a  good  many  years  before 
the  event,  had  been  made  dismal  by  the  croaking 
of  lokanaans,  and  there  was  a  definite  defaitiste 
party  among  the  intelligentsia.  But  among  the 
people  in  general,  if  there  was  not  optimism, 
there  was  at  least  a  sort  of  resigned  indifference, 
and  so  things  went  ahead  in  the  old  stupid  Span- 
ish way  and  the  structure  of  society,  despite  a 
few  gestures  of  liberalism,  remained  as  it  had 
been  for  generations.  In  Spain,  of  course,  there 
is  always  a  Kulturkampf,  as  there  is  in  Italy, 
but  during  these  years  it  was  quiescent.  The 
Church,  in  the  shadow  of  the  restored  monarchy, 
gradually  resumed  its  old  privileges  and  its  old 
pretensions.  So  on  the  political  side.  In  Cata- 
lonia, where  Spain  keeps  the  strangest  melting- 
pot  in  Europe  and  the  old  Iberian  stock  is  almost 
extinct,  there  was  a  menacing  seething,  but  else- 


INTRODUCTION 


where  there  was  not  much  to  chill  the  conserva- 
tive spine.  In  the  middle  nineties,  when  the  So- 
cialist vote  in  Germany  was  already  approaching 
the  two  million  mark,  and  Belgium  was  rocked 
by  great  Socialist  demonstrations,  and  the  So- 
cialist deputies  in  the  French  Chamber  numbered 
fifty,  and  even  England  was  beginning  to  toy 
gingerly  with  new  schemes  of  social  reform,  by 
Bismarck  out  of  Lassalle,  the  total  strength  of  the 
Socialists  of  Spain  was  still  not  much  above  five 
thousand  votes.  In  brief,  the  country  seemed  to 
be  removed  from  the  main  currents  of  European 
thought.  There  was  unrest,  to  be  sure,  but  it 
was  unrest  that  was  largely  inarticulate  and  that 
needed  a  new  race  of  leaders  to  give  it  form  and 
direction. 

Then  came  the  colossal  shock  of  the  American 
war  and  a  sudden  transvaluation  of  all  the  old 
values.  Anti-clericalism  got  on  its  legs  and  So- 
cialism got  on  its  legs,  and  out  of  the  two  grew 
that  great  movement  for  the  liberation  of  the 
common  people,  that  determined  and  bitter  strug- 
gle for  a  fair  share  in  the  fruits  of  human  prog- 
ress, which  came  to  its  melodramatic  climax  in 
the  execution  of  Francisco  Ferrer.  Spain  now 
began  to  go  ahead  very  rapidly,  if  not  in  actual 
—  12  — 


INTRODUCTION 


achievement,  then  at  least  in  the  examination  and 
exchange  of  ideas,  good  and  bad.  Parties 
formed,  split,  blew  up,  revived  and  combined, 
each  with  its  sure  cure  for  all  the  sorrows  of  the 
land.  Resignationism  gave  way  to  a  harsh  and 
searching  questioning,  and  questioning  to  denun- 
ciation and  demand  for  reform.  The  monarchy 
swayed  this  way  and  that,  seeking  to  avoid  both 
the  peril  of  too  much  yielding  and  the  worse 
peril  of  not  yielding  enough.  The  Church,  on 
the  defensive  once  more,  prepared  quickly  for 
stormy  weather  and  sent  hurried  calls  to  Rome 
for  help.  Nor  was  all  this  uproar  on  the  politi- 
cal and  practical  side.  Spanish  letters,  for  years 
sunk  into  formalism,  revived  with  the  national 
spirit,  and  the  new  books  in  prose  and  verse  be- 
gan to  deal  vigorously  with  the  here  and  now. 
Novelists,  poets  and  essayists  appeared  who  had 
never  been  heard  of  before — young  men  full  of 
exciting  ideas  borrowed  from  foreign  lands  and 
even  more  exciting  ideas  of  their  own  fashion- 
ing. The  national  literature,  but  lately  so  aca- 
demic and  remote  from  existence,  was  now  furi- 
ously lively,  challenging  and  provocative.  The 
people  found  in  it,  not  the  old  placid  escape  from 
life,  but  a  new  stimulation  to  arduous  and  ardent 
—  13  — 


INTRODUCTION 


living.  And  out  of  the  ruck  of  authors,  eager, 
exigent,  and  the  tremendous  clash  of  nations,  new 
and  old,  there  finally  emerged  a  prose  based  not 
upon  rhetorical  reminiscences,  but  responsive 
minutely  to  the  necessities  of  the  national  life. 
The  oratorical  platitudes  of  Gastelar  and  Cano- 
vas  del  Castillo  gave  way  to  the  discreet  analyses 
of  Azorin  (Jose  Martinez  Ruiz)  and  Jose  Ortega 
y  Gasset,  to  the  sober  sentences  of  the  Rector  of 
the  University  of  Salamanca,  Miguel  de  Unam- 
uno,  writing  with  a  restraint  which  is  anything 
but  traditionally  Castilian,  and  to  the  journal- 
istic impressionism  of  Ramiro  de  Maeztu,  supple 
and  cosmopolitan  from  long  residence  abroad. 
The  poets  now  jettisoned  the  rotundities  of  the 
romantic  and  emotional  schools  of  Zorrilla  and 
Salvador  Rueda,  and  substituted  instead  the 
precise,  pictorial  line  of  Ruben  Dario,  Juan  Ra- 
mon Jimenez,  and  the  brothers  Machado,  while 
the  socialistic  and  republican  propaganda  which 
had  invaded  the  theatre  with  Perez  Galdos,  Joa- 
quin  Dicenta,  and  Angel  Guimera,  bore  fruit  in 
the  psychological  drama  of  Benavente,  the  social 
comedies  of  Linares  Rivas,  and  the  atmospheric 
canvases  which  the  Quinteros  have  painted  of 
Andalusia. 

—  14  — 


INTRODUCTION 


In  the  novel,  the  transformation  is  noticeable 
at  once  in  the  rapid  development  of  the  porno- 
graphic tale,  whose  riches  might  bring  a  blush 
to  the  cheek  of  Boccaccio,  and  provide  Poggio 
and  Aretino  with  a  complete  review;  but  these 
are  stories  for  the  barrack,  venturing  only  now 
and  then  upon  the  confines  of  respectability  in 
the  erotic  romances  of  Zamacois  and  the  late 
enormously  popular  Felipe  Trigo.  Few  Span- 
iards who  write  today  but  have  written  novels. 
Yet  the  gesture  of  the  grand  style  of  Valera  is 
palsied,  except,  perhaps,  for  the  conservative 
Quixote,  Ricardo  Leon,  a  functionary  in  the 
Bank  of  Spain,  while  the  idyllic  method  lingers 
fitfully  in  such  gentle  writers  as  Jose  Maria  Sal- 
averria,  after  surviving  the  attacks  of  the  north- 
ern realists  under  the  lead  of  Pereda,  in  his 
novels  of  country  life,  and  of  the  less  vigorous 
Antonio  de  Trueba,  and  of  Madrid  vulgarians, 
headed  by  Mesonero  Romanes  and  Coloma.  The 
decadent  novel,  foreshadowed  a  few  years  since 
by  Alejandro  Sawa,  has  attained  full  maturity  in 
Hoyos  y  Vinent,  while  the  distinctive  growth  of 
the  century  is  the  novel  of  ideas,  exact,  penetrat- 
ing, persistently  suggestive  in  the  larger  sense, 
which  does  not  hesitate  to  make  demands  upon 
—  15  — 


INTRODUCTION 


the  reader,  and  this  is  exemplified  most  dis- 
tinctively, both  temperamentally  and  intellectu- 
ally, by  Pio  Baroja. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  two  men  who,  deal- 
ing with  the  same  ideas,  bring  to  them  more  an- 
tagonistic attitudes  of  mind  than  Baroja  and 
Blasco  Ibaiiez.  For  all  his  appearance  of  mod- 
ernism, Blasco  really  belongs  to  the  generation 
before  1898.  He  is  of  the  stock  of  Victor  Hugo 
— a  popular  rhapsodist  and  intellectual  swash- 
buckler, half  artist  and  half  mob  orator — a  man 
of  florid  and  shallow  certainties,  violent  enthusi- 
asms, quack  remedies,  vast  magnetism  and  ad- 
dress, and  even  vaster  impudence — a  fellow  with 
plain  touches  of  the  charlatan.  His  first  solid 
success  at  home  was  made  with  La  Barraca  in 
1899 — and  it  was  a  success  a  good  deal  more 
political  than  artistic;  he  was  hailed  for  his 
frenzy  far  more  than  for  his  craft.  Even  out- 
side of  Spain  his  subsequent  celebrity  has  tended 
to  ground  itself  upon  agreement  with  his  poli- 
tics, and  not  upon  anything  properly  describable 
as  a  critical  appreciation  of  his  talents.  Had 
The  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse  been  di- 
rected against  France  instead  of  in  favour  of 
France,  it  goes  without  saying  that  it  would  have 
—  16  — 


INTRODUCTION 


come  to  the  United  States  without  the  imprimatur 
of  the  American  Embassy  at  Madrid,  and  that 
there  would  have  appeared  no  sudden  rage  for 
the  author  among  the  generality  of  novel-read- 
ers. His  intrinsic  merits,  in  sober  retrospect, 
seem  very  feeble.  For  all  his  concern  with  cur- 
rent questions,  his  accurate  news  instinct,  he  is 
fundamentally  a  romantic  of  the  last  century, 
with  more  than  one  plain  touch  of  the  downright 
operatic. 

Baroja  is  a  man  of  a  very  different  sort.  A 
novelist  undoubtedly  as  skilful  as  Blasco  and  a 
good  deal  more  profound,  he  lacks  the  quality  of 
enthusiasm  and  thus  makes  a  more  restricted  ap- 
peal. In  place  of  gaudy  certainties  he  offers 
disconcerting  questionings;  in  place  of  a  neat  and 
well-rounded  body  of  doctrine  he  puts  forward  a 
sort  of  generalized  contra-doctrine.  Blasco  is 
almost  the  typical  Socialist — iconoclastic,  ora- 
torical, sentimental,  theatrical — a  fervent  advo- 
cate of  all  sorts  of  lofty  causes,  eagerly  respon- 
sive to  the  shibboleths  of  the  hour.  Baroja  is 
the  analyst,  the  critic,  almost  the  cynic.  If  he 
leans  toward  any  definite  doctrine  at  all,  it  is  to- 
ward the  doctrine  that  the  essential  ills  of  man 
are  incurable,  that  all  the  remedies  proposed  are 
—  17  — 


INTRODUCTION 


as  bad  as  the  disease,  that  it  is  almost  a  waste  of 
time  to  bother  about  humanity  in  general.  This 
agnostic  attitude,  of  course,  is  very  far  from 
merely  academic,  monastic.  Baroja,  though  his 
career  has  not  been  as  dramatic  as  Blasco's,  has 
at  all  events  taken  a  hand  in  the  life  of  his  time 
and  country  and  served  his  day  in  the  trenches  of 
the  new  enlightenment.  He  is  anything  but  a 
theorist.  But  there  is  surely  no  little  signifi- 
cance in  his  final  retreat  to  his  Basque  hillside, 
there  to  seek  peace  above  the  turmoil.  He  is, 
one  fancies,  a  bit  disgusted  and  a  bit  despairing. 
But  if  it  is  despair,  it  is  surely  not  the  despair  of 
one  who  has  shirked  the  trial. 

The  present  book,  Juventud,  Egolatria,  was 
written  at  the  height  of  the  late  war,  and  there  is 
a  preface  to  the  original  edition,  omitted  here,  in 
which  Baroja  defends  his  concern  with  aesthetic 
and  philosophical  matters  at  such  a  time.  The 
apologia  was  quite  gratuitous.  A  book  on  the 
war,  though  by  the  first  novelist  of  present-day 
Spain,  would  probably  have  been  as  useless  as 
all  the  other  books  on  the  war.  That  stupendous 
event  will  be  far  more  soundly  discussed  by  men 
who  have  not  felt  its  harsh  appeal  to  the  emo- 
tions. Baroja,  evading  this  grand  enemy  of  all 
—  18  — 


INTRODUCTION 


ideas,  sat  himself  down  to  inspect  and  co-ordi- 
nate the  ideas  that  had  gradually  come  to  growth 
in  his  mind  before  the  bands  began  to  bray.  The 
result  is  a  book  that  is  interesting,  not  only  as  the 
frank  talking  aloud  of  one  very  unusual  man, 
but  also  as  a  representation  of  what  is  going  on 
in  the  heads  of  a  great  many  other  Spaniards. 
Blasco,  it  seems  to  me,  is  often  less  Spanish  than 
French;  Valencia,  after  all,  is  next  door  to  Cata- 
lonia, and  Catalonia  is  anything  but  Castilian. 
But  Baroja,  though  he  is  also  un-Castilian  and 
even  a  bit  anti-Castilian,  is  still  a  thorough  Span- 
iard. He  is  more  interested  in  a  literary  feud 
in  Madrid  than  in  a  holocaust  beyond  the  Pyre- 
nees. He  gets  into  his  discussion  of  every  prob- 
lem a  definitely  Spanish  flavour.  He  is  unmis- 
takably a  Spaniard  even  when  he  is  trying  most 
rigorously  to  be  unbiased  and  international.  He 
thinks  out  everything  in  Spanish  terms.  In  him,  I 
from  first  to  last,  one  observes  all  the  peculiar 
qualities  of  the  Iberian  mind — its  disillusion,  its 
patient  weariness,  its  pervasive  melancholy. 
Spain,  I  take  it,  is  the  most  misunderstood  of 
countries.  The  world  cannot  get  over  seeing  it 
through  the  pink  mist  of  Carmen,  an  astound- 
ing Gallic  caricature,  half  flattery  and  half  libel. 


INTRODUCTION 


The  actual  Spaniard  is  surely  no  such  grand- 
opera  Frenchman  as  tlhe  immortal  toreador.  I 
prescribe  the  treatment  that  cured  me,  for  one,  of 
mistaking  him  for  an  Iberian.  That  is,  I  pre- 
scribe a  visit  to  Spain  in  carnival  time. 

Baroja,  then,  stands  for  the  modern  Spanish 
mind  at  its  most  enlightened.  He  is  the  Span- 
iard of  education  and  worldly  wisdom,  detached 
from  the  mediaeval  imbecilities  of  the  old  regime 
and  yet  aloof  from  the  worse  follies  of  the  dema- 
gogues who  now  rage  in  the  country.  Vastly 
less  picturesque  than  Blasco  Ibafiez,  he  is  nearer 
the  normal  Spaniard — the  Spaniard  who,  in  the 
long  run,  must  erect  a  new  structure  of  society 
upon  the  half  archaic  and  half  Utopian  chaos 
now  reigning  in  the  peninsula.  Thus  his  book, 
though  it  is  addressed  to  Spaniards,  should  have 
a  certain  value  for  English-speaking  readers. 
And  so  it  is  presented. 

H.  L.  MENCKEN. 


20  — 


PROLOGUE 


ON  INTELLECTUAL  LOVE 

Only  what  is  of  the  mind  has  value  to  the 
mind.  Let  us  dedicate  ourselves  without  com- 
punction to  reflecting  a  little  upon  the  eternal 
themes  of  life  and  art.  It  is  surely  proper  that 
an  author  should  write  of  them. 

I  cultivate  a  love  which  is  intellectual,  and  of 
a  former  epoch,  besides  a  deafness  to  the  pres- 
ent. I  pour  out  my  spirit  continually  into  the 
eternal  moulds  without  expecting  that  anything 
will  result  from  it. 

But  now,  instead  of  a  novel,  a  few  stray  com- 
ments upon  my  life  have  come  from  my  pen. 

Like  most  of  my  books,  this  has  appeared  in 
my  hands  without  being  planned,  and  not  at  my 
bidding.  I  was  asked  to  write  an  autobiograph- 
ical sketch  of  ten  or  fifteen  pages.  Ten  or  fif- 
teen pages  seemed  a  great  many  to  fill  with  the 
personal  details  of  a  life  which  is  as  insignificant 
as  my  own,  and  far  too  few  for  any  adequate 
comment  upon  them.  I  did  not  know  how  to 
begin.  To  pick  up  the  thread,  I  began  drawing 
—  23  — 


PROLOGUE 


lines  and  arabesques.  Then  the  pages  grew  in 
number  and,  like  Faust's  dog,  my  pile  soon 
waxed  big,  and  brought  forth  this  work. 

At  times,  perhaps,  the  warmth  of  the  author's 
feeling  may  appear  ill-advised  to  the  reader;  it 
may  be  that  he  will  find  his  opinions  ridiculous 
and  beside  the  mark  on  every  page.  I  have 
merely  sought  to  sun  my  vanity  and  egotism,  to 
bring  them  forth  into  the  air,  so  that  my  aesthetic 
susceptibilities  might  not  be  completely  smoth- 
ered. 

This  book  has  been  a  work  of  mental  hygiene. 

EGOTISM 

Egotism  resembles  cold  drinks  in  summer;  the 
more  you  take,  the  thirstier  you  get.  It  also 
distorts  the  vision,  producing  an  hydropic  ef- 
fect, as  has  been  noted  by  Calderon  in  his  Life  Is 
a  Dream. 

An  author  always  has  before  him  a  keyboard 
made  up  of  a  series  of  I's.  The  lyric  and  sa- 
tiric writers  play  in  the  purely  human  octave; 
the  critic  plays  in  the  bookman's  octave;  the  his- 
torian in  the  octave  of  the  investigator.  When 
an  author  writes  of  himself,  perforce  he  plays 
—  24  — 


PROLOGUE 


upon  his  own  "I,"  which  is  not  exactly  that  con- 
tained in  the  octave  of  the  sentimentalist  nor  yet 
in  that  of  the  curious  investigator.  Undoubt- 
edly at  times  it  must  be  a  most  immodest  "I,"  an 
"I"  which  discloses  a  name  and  a  surname,  an 
"I"  which  is  positive  and  self-assertive,  with  the 
imperiousness  of  a  Captain  General's  edict  or  a 
Civil  Governor's  decree. 

I  have  always  felt  some  delicacy  in  talking 
about  myself,  so  that  the  impulsion  to  write  these 
pages  of  necessity  came  from  without. 

As  I  am  not  generally  interested  when  any- 
body communicates  his  likes  and  dislikes  to  me, 
I  am  of  opinion  that  the  other  person  most  prob- 
ably shares  the  same  feelings  when  I  communi- 
cate mine  to  him.  However,  a  time  has  now  ar- 
rived when  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  me  what 
the  other  person  thinks. 

In  this  matter  of  giving  annoyance,  a  formula 
should  be  drawn  up  and  accepted,  after  the  man- 
ner of  Robespierre:  the  liberty  of  annoying  an- 
other begins  where  his  liberty  of  annoying  you 
leaves  off. 

I  understand  very  well  that  there  may  be  per- 
sons who  believe  that  their  lives  are  wholly  ex- 
emplary, and  who  thus  burn  with  ardour  to  talk 
—  25  — 


PROLOGUE 


about  them.  But  I  have  not  led  an  exemplary 
life  to  any  such  extent.  I  have  not  led  a  life 
that  might  be  called  pedagogic,  because  it  is 
fitted  to  serve  as  a  model,  nor  a  life  that  might  be 
called  anti-pedagogic,  because  it  would  serve  as 
a  warning.  Neither  do  I  bring  a  fistful  of  truths 
in  my  hand,  to  scatter  broadcast.  What,  then, 
have  I  to  say?  And  why  do  I  write  about  my- 
self? Assuredly,  to  no  useful  purpose. 

The  owner  of  a  house  is  sometimes  asked: 

"Is  there  anything  much  locked  up  in  that 
room?" 

"No,  nothing  but  old  rubbish,"  he  replies 
promptly. 

But  one  day  the  owner  opens  the  room,  and 
then  he  finds  a  great  store  of  things  which  he  had 
not  remembered,  all  of  them  covered  with  dust; 
so  he  hauls  them  out  and  generally  they  prove  to 
be  of  no  service  at  all.  This  is  precisely  what 
I  have  done. 

These  pages,  indeed,  are  a  spontaneous  exu- 
dation. But  are  they  sincere?  Absolutely  sin- 
cere? It  is  not  very  probable.  The  moment  we 
sit  for  a  photographer,  instinctively  we  dissem- 
ble and  compose  our  features.  When  we  talk 
about  ourselves,  we  also  dissemble. 
—  26  — 


PROLOGUE 


In  as  short  a  book  as  this  the  author  is  able  to 
play  with  his  mask  and  to  fix  his  expression. 
Throughout  the  work  of  an  entire  lifetime,  how- 
ever, which  is  of  real  value  only  when  it  is  one 
long  autobiography,  deceit  is  impossible,  be- 
cause when  the  writer  is  least  conscious  of  it,  he 
reveals  himself. 


—  27  — 


I 

FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 
THE  BAD  MAN  OF  ITZEA 

When  I  first  came  to  live  in  this  house  at  Vera 
del  Bidasoa,  I  found  that  the  children  of  the  dis- 
trict had  taken  possession  of  the  entryway  and 
the  garden,  where  they  misbehaved  generally. 
It  was  necessary  to  drive  them  away  little  by  lit- 
tle, until  they  flew  off  like  a  flock  of  sparrows. 

My  family  and  I  must  have  seemed  somewhat 
peculiar  to  these  children,  for  one  day,  when  one 
little  fellow  caught  sight  of  me,  he  took  refuge 
in  the  portal  of  his  house  and  cried  out: 

"Here  comes  the  bad  man  of  Itzea!" 

And  the  bad  man  of  Itzea  was  I. 

Perhaps  this  child  had  heard  from  his  sister, 
and  his  sister  had  heard  from  her  mother,  and 
her  mother  had  heard  from  the  sexton's  wife,  and 
the  sexton's  wife  from  the  parish  priest,  that  men 
who  have  little  religion  are  very  bad;  perhaps 
this  opinion  did  not  derive  from  the  priest,  but 
—  29  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


from  the  president  of  the  Daughters  of  Mary,  or 
from  the  secretary  of  the  Enthronization  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus;  perhaps  some  of  them 
had  read  a  little  book  by  Father  Ladron  de  Gue- 
vara entitled,  Novelists,  Good  and  Bad,  which 
was  distributed  in  the  village  the  day  that  I  ar- 
rived, and  which  states  that  I  am  irreligious,  a 
clerophobe,  and  quite  shameless.  Whether  from 
one  source  or  another,  the  important  considera- 
tion to  me  was  that  there  was  a  bad  man  in  Itzea, 
and  that  that  bad  man  was  I. 

To  study  and  make  clear  the  instincts,  pride, 
and  vanities  of  the  bad  man  of  Itzea  is  the  pur- 
pose of  this  book. 

HUMBLE  AND  A  WANDERER 

Some  years  ago,  I  cannot  say  just  how  many, 
probably  twelve  or  fourteen,  during  the  days 
when  I  led,  or  thought  I  led,  a  nomadic  life,  hap- 
pening to  be  in  San  Sebastian,  I  went  to  visit  the 
Museum  with  the  painter  Regoyos.  After  see- 
ing everything,  Soraluce,  the  director,  indicated 
that  I  was  expected  to  inscribe  my  name  in  the 
visitor's  register,  and  after  I  had  done  so,  he 
said: 

—  30  — 


FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 


"Place  your  titles  beneath." 

"Titles!"  I  exclaimed.     "I  have  none." 

"Then  put  down  what  you  are.  As  you  see, 
the  others  have  done  the  same." 

I  looked  at  the  book.  True  enough;  there  was 
one  signature,  So-and-So,  and  beneath,  "Chief  of 
Administration  of  the  Third  Class  and  Knight  of 
Charles  III";  another,  Somebody  Else,  and  be- 
neath was  written  "Commander  of  the  Battalion 
of  Isabella  the  Catholic,  with  the  Cross  of  Maria 
Cristina." 

Then,  perhaps  slightly  irritated  at  having 
neither  titles  nor  honours  (burning  with  an  anar- 
chistic and  Christian  rancour,  as  Nietzsche  would 
have  it),  I  jotted  down  a  few  casual  words  be- 
neath my  signature: 

"Pio  Baroja,  a  humble  man  and  a  wanderer." 

Regoyos  read  them  and  burst  out  laughing. 

"What  an  idea!"  exclaimed  the  director  of  the 
Museum,  as  he  closed  the  volume. 

And  there  I  remained  a  humble  man  and  a 
wanderer,  overshadowed  by  Chiefs  of  Adminis- 
tration of  all  Classes,  Commanders  of  all 
Branches  of  the  Service,  Knights  of  all  kinds  of 
Crosses,  rich  men  returned  from  America,  bank- 
ers, etc.,  etc. 

—  31  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


Am  I  a  humble  man  and  a  wanderer?  Not  a 
bit  of  it!  There  is  more  literary  phantasy  in  the 
phrase  than  there  is  truth.  Of  humility  I  do  not 
now,  nor  have  I  ever  possessed  more  than  a  few 
rather  Buddhistic  fragments;  nor  am  I  a  wan- 
derer either,  for  making  a  few  insignificant  jour- 
neys does  not  authorize  one  to  call  oneself  a 
wanderer.  Just  as  I  put  myself  down  at  that 
time  as  a  humble  man  and  a  wanderer,  so  I  might 
call  myself  today  a  proud  and  sedentary  person. 
Perhaps  both  characterizations  contain  some  de- 
gree of  truth;  and  perhaps  there  is  nothing  in 
either. 

When  a  man  scrutinizes  himself  very  closely, 
he  arrives  at  a  point  where  he  does  not  know 
what  is  face  and  what  is  mask. 

DOGMATOPHAGY 

If  I  am  questioned  concerning  my  ideas  on 
religion,  I  reply  that  I  am  an  agnostic — I  always 
like  to  be  a  little  pedantic  with  philistines — now 
I  shall  add  that,  more  than  this,  I  am  a  dogma- 
tophagist. 

My  first  impulse  in  the  presence  of  a  dogma, 
whether  it  be  political,  moral,  or  religious,  is  to 
—  32  — 


FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 


cast  about  for  the  'best  way  to  masticate,  digest, 
and  dispose  of  it. 

The  peril  in  an  inordinate  appetite  for  dogma 
lies  in  the  probability  of  making  too  severe  a 
drain  upon  the  gastric  juices,  and  so  becoming 
dyspeptic  for  the  rest  of  one's  life. 

In  this  respect,  my  inclination  exceeds  my 
prudence.  I  have  an  incurable  dogmatophagy. 

IGNORAMUS,  IGNORABIMUS 

Such  are  the  words  of  the  psychologist,  Du- 
Bois-Reymond,  in  one  of  his  well-known  lectures. 
The  agnostic  attitude  is  the  most  seemly  that  it  is 
possible  to  take.  Nowadays,  not  only  have  all 
religious  ideas  been  upset,  but  so  too  has  every- 
thing which  until  now  appeared  most  solid,  most 
indivisible.  Who  has  faith  any  longer  in  the 
atom?  Who  believes  in  the  soul  as  a  monad? 
Who  believes  in  the  objective  validity  of  the 
senses? 

The  atom,  unity  of  the  spirit  and  of  conscious- 
ness, the  validity  of  perception,  all  these  are  un- 
der suspicion  today.  Ignoramus,  ignorabimus. 


33  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


NEVERTHELESS,  WE  CALL  OURSELVES 
MATERIALISTS 

Nevertheless,  we  call  ourselves  materialists. 
Yes ;  not  because  we  believe  that  matter  exists  as 
we  see  it,  but  because  in  this  way  we  may  con- 
tradict the  vain  imaginings  and  all  those  sacred 
mysteries  which  begin  so  modestly,  and  always 
end  by  extracting  the  money  from  our  pockets. 

Materialism,  as  Lange  has  said,  has  proved  it- 
self the  most  fecund  doctrine  of  science.  Wil- 
helm  Ostwald,  in  his  Victory  of  Scientific  Mate- 
rialism, has  defended  the  same  thesis  with  re- 
spect to  modern  physics  and  chemistry. 

At  the  present  time  we  are  regaled  with  the 
sight  of  learned  friars  laying  aside  for  a  moment 
their  ancient  tomes,  and  turning  to  dip  into  some 
manual  of  popular  science,  after  which  they  go 
about  and  astonish  simpletons  by  giving  lectures. 

The  war  horse  of  these  gentlemen  is  the  con- 
ception entertained  by  physicists  at  the  present- 
day  concerning  matter,  according  to  which  it  has 
substance  in  the  precise  degree  that  it  is  a  mani- 
festation of  energy. 

"If  matter  is  scarcely  real,  then  what  is  the 
—  34  — 


FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 


validity  of  materialism?"  shout  the  friars  enthu- 
siastically. 

The  argument  smacks  of  the  seminary  and  is 
absolutely  worthless. 

Materialism  is  more  than  a  philosophical  sys- 
tem: it  is  a  scientific  method,  which  will  have 
nothing  to  do  either  with  fantasies  or  with  ca- 
prices. 

The  jubilation  of  these  friars  at  the  thought 
that  matter  may  not  exist,  in  truth  and  in  fact  is 
in  direct  opposition  to  their  own  theories.  Be- 
cause if  matter  does  not  exist,  then  what  could 
God  have  created? 

IN  DEFENSE  OF  RELIGION 

The  great  defender  of  religion  is  the  lie. 
Lies  are  the  most  vital  possession  of  man.  Re- 
ligion lives  upon  lies,  and  society  maintains  it- 
self upon  them,  with  its  train  of  priests  and  sol- 
diers— the  one,  moreover,  as  useless  as  the  other. 
This  great  Maia  of  falsehood  sustains  all  the  sky 
borders  in  the  theatre  of  life,  and,  when  some 
fall,  it  lifts  up  others. 

If  there  were  a  solvent  for  lies,  what  surprises 
—  35  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


would  be  in  store  for  us!  Nearly  everybody 
who  now  appears  to  us  to  be  upright,  inflexible, 
and  to  hold  his  chest  high,  would  be  disclosed 
as  a  flaccid,  weak  person,  presenting  in  reality  a 
sorry  spectacle. 

Lies  are  much  more  stimulating  than  truth; 
they  are  also  almost  always  more  tonic  and  more 
healthy.  I  have  come  to  this  conclusion  rather 
late  in  life.  For  utilitarian  and  practical  ends, 
it  is  clearly  our  duty  to  cultivate  falsehood,  arbi- 
trariness, and  partial  truths.  Nevertheless,  we 
do  not  do  so.  Can  it  be  that,  unconsciously,  we 
have  something  of  the  heroic  in  us? 

ARCH-EUROPEAN 

I  am  a  Basque,  if  not  on  all  four  sides,  at  least 
on  three  and  a  half.  The  remaining  half,  which 
is  not  Basque,  is  Lombard. 

Four  of  my  eight  family  names  are  Guipiiz- 
coan,  two  of  them  are  Navarrese,  one  Alavese, 
and  the  other  Italian.  I  take  it  that  family 
names  are  indicative  of  the  countries  where  one's 
ancestors  lived,  and  I  take  it  also  that  there  is 
great  potency  behind  them,  that  the  influence  of 
each  works  upon  the  individual  with  a  duly  pro- 
—  36  — 


FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 


portioned  intensity.  Assuming  this  to  be  the 
case,  the  resultant  of  the  ancestral  influences 
operative  upon  me  would  indicate  that  my  geo- 
graphical parallel  lies  somewhere  between  the 
Alps  and  the  Pyrenees.  Sometimes  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  the  Alps  and  the  Pyrenees 
are  all  that  is  European  in  Europe.  Beyond 
t hem  I  seem  to  see  Asia ;  below  them,  Africa. 

In  the  riparian  Navarrese,  as  in  the  Catalans 
and  the  Genovese,  one  already  notes  the  Afri- 
can ;  in  the  Gaul  of  central  France,  as  well  as  in 
the  Austrian,  there  is  a  suggestion  of  the  Chinese. 

Clutching  the  Pyrenees  and  grafted  upon  the 
Alps,  I  am  conscious  of  being  an  Arch-European. 

DIONYSIAN  OR  APOLLONIAN? 

Formerly,  when  I  believed  that  I  was  both 
humble  and  a  wanderer,  I  was  convinced  that  I 
was  a  Dionysian.  I  was  impelled  toward  tur- 
bulence, the  dynamic,  the  theatric.  Naturally, 
I  was  an  anarchist.  Am  I  today?  I  believe  I 
still  am.  In  those  days  I  used  to  enthuse  about 
the  future,  and  I  hated  the  past. 

Little  by  little,  this  turbulence  has  calmed 
down — perhaps  it  was  never  very  great.  Little 
—  37  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


by  little  I  have  come  to  realize  that  if  following 
Dionysus  induces  the  will  to  bound  and  leap,  de- 
votion to  Apollo  has  a  tendency  to  throw  the 
mind  back  until  it  rests  upon  the  harmony  of 
eternal  form.  There  is  great  attraction  in  both 
gods. 

EPICURI  DE  GREGE  PORCUM 

I  am  also  a  swine  of  the  herd  of  Epicurus; 
I,  too,  wax  eloquent  over  this  ancient  philoso- 
pher, who  conversed  with  his  pupils  in  his  gar- 
den. The  very  epithet  of  Horace,  upon  detach- 
ing himself  from  the  Epicureans,  "Epicuri  de 
grege  porcum"  is  full  of  charm. 

All  noble  minds  have  hymned  Epicurus. 
"Hail  Epicurus,  thou  honour  of  Greece!"  Lucre- 
tius exclaims  in  the  third  book  of  his  poem. 

"I  have  sought  to  avenge  Epicurus,  that  truly 
holy  philosopher,  that  divine  genius,"  Lucian 
tells  us  in  his  Alexander,  or  the  False  Prophet. 

Lange,  in  his  History  of  Materialism,  sets 
down  Epicurus  as  a  disciple  and  imitator  of 
Democritus. 

I  am  not  a  man  of  sufficient  classical  culture  to 
be  able  to  form  an  authoritative  opinion  of  the 
—  38  — 


FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 


merits  of  Epicurus  as  a  philosopher.  All  my 
knowledge  of  him,  as  well  as  of  the  other  ancient 
philosophers,  is  derived  from  the  book  of  Diog- 
enes Laertius. 

Concerning  Epicurus,  I  have  read  Bayle's 
magnificent  article  in  his  Historical  and  Critical 
Dictionary,  and  Gassendi's  work,  De  Vita  et 
Moribus  Epicuri.  With  this  equipment,  I  have 
become  one  of  the  disciples  of  the  master. 

Scholars  may  say  that  I  have  no  right  to  en- 
rol myself  as  one  of  the  disciples  of  Epicurus, 
but  when  I  think  of  myself,  spontaneously  there 
comes  to  my  mind  the  grotesque  epithet  which 
Horace  applied  to  the  Epicureans  in  his  Epistles, 
a  characterization  which  for  my  part  I  accept 
and  regard  as  an  honour:  "Swine  of  the  herd  of 
Epicurus,  Epicuri  de  grege  porcum" 

EVIL  AND  ROUSSEAU'S  CHINAMAN 

I  do  not  believe  in  utter  human  depravity,  nor 
have  I  any  faith  in  great  virtue,  nor  in  the  notion 
that  the  affairs  of  life  may  be  removed  beyond 
good  and  evil.  We  shall  outgrow,  we  have  al- 
ready outgrown,  die  conception  of  sin,  but  we 
shall  never  pass  beyond  the  idea  of  good  and 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


evil;  that  would  be  equivalent  to  skipping  the 
cardinal  points  in  geography.  Nietzsche,  an 
eminent  poet  and  an  extraordinary  psychologist, 
convinced  himself  that  we  should  be  able  to  leap 
over  good  and  evil  with  the  help  of  a  springboard 
of  his  manufacture. 

Not  with  this  springboard,  nor  with  any  other, 
shall  we  escape  from  the  polar  North  and  South 
of  the  moral  life. 

Nietzsche,  a  product  of  the  fiercest  pessimism, 
was  at  heart  a  good  man,  being  in  this  respect 
the  direct  opposite  of  Rousseau,  who,  despite  the 
fact  that  he  is  forever  talking  about  virtue,  about 
sensibility,  the  heart,  and  the  sublimity  of  the 
soul,  was  in  reality  a  low,  sordid  creature. 

The  philanthropist  of  Geneva  shows  die  cloven 
hoof  now  and  then.  He  asks:  "If  all  that  it 
were  necessary  for  us  to  do  in  order  to  inherit 
the  riches  of  a  man  whom  we  had  never  seen,  of 
whom  we  had  never  even  heard,  and  who  lived 
in  the  furthermost  confines  of  China,  were  to 
press  a  button  and  cause  his  death,  what  man 
living  would  not  press  that  button?" 

Rousseau  is  convinced  that  we  should  all  press 
the  button,  and  he  is  mistaken,  because  the  ma- 
jority of  men  who  are  civilized  would  do  nothing 
—  40  — 


FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 


of  the  kind.  This,  to  my  mind,  is  not  to  say 
that  men  are  good ;  it  is  merely  to  say  that  Rous- 
seau, in  his  enthusiasm  for  humanity,  as  well  as 
in  his  aversion  to  it,  is  wide  of  the  mark.  The 
evil  in  man  is  not  evil  of  this  active  sort,  so  the- 
atrical, so  self-interested;  it  is  a  passive,  torpid 
evil  which  lies  latent  in  the  depths  of  the  human 
animal,  it  is  an  evil  which  can  scarcely  be  called 
evil. 

THE  ROOT  OF  DISINTERESTED  EVIL 

Tell  a  man  that  an  intimate  friend  has  met 
with  a  great  misfortune.  His  first  impulse  is 
one  of  satisfaction.  He  himself  is  not  aware  of 
it  clearly,  he  does  not  realize  it;  nevertheless,  es- 
sentially his  emotion  is  one  of  satisfaction.  This 
man  may  afterward  place  his  fortune,  if  he  has 
one,  at  the  disposition  of  his  friend,  yes,  even  his 
life;  yet  this  will  not  prevent  his  first  conscious 
reaction  upon  learning  of  the  misfortune  of  his 
friend,  from  being  one  which,  although  confused, 
is  nevertheless  not  far  removed  from  pleasure. 

This  feeling  of  disinterested  malice  mav  be  ob- 
served in  the  relations  between  parents  and  chil- 
dren as  well  as  in  those  between  husbands  and 
—  41  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


wives.  At  times  it  is  not  only  disinterested,  but 
counter-interested. 

The  lack  of  a  name  for  this  background  of  dis- 
interested malice,  which  does  exist,  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  psychology  is  not  based  so  much  upon 
phenomena  as  it  is  upon  language. 

According  to  our  current  standards,  latent  evil 
of  this  nature  is  neither  of  interest  nor  signifi- 
cance. Naturally,  the  judge  takes  account  of 
nothing  but  deeds;  to  religion,  which  probes  more 
deeply,  the  intent  is  of  importance;  to  the  psy- 
chologist, however,  who  attempts  to  penetrate 
still  further,  the  elemental  germinative  processes 
of  volition  are  of  indispensable  significance. 

Whence  this  foundation  of  disinterested  mal- 
ice in  man?  Probably  it  is  an  ancestral  legacy. 
Man  is  a  wolf  toward  man,  as  Plautus  observes, 
and  the  idea  has  been  repeated  by  Hobbes. 

In  literature,  it  is  almost  idle  to  look  for  a 
presentation  of  this  disinterested,  this  passive 
evil,  because  nothing  but  the  conscious  is  liter- 
ary. Shakespeare,  in  his  Othello,  a  drama  which 
has  always  appeared  false  and  absurd  to  me, 
emphasizes  the  disinterested  malice  of  lago,  im- 
parting to  him  a  character  and  mode  of  action 
which  are  beyond  those  of  normal  men;  but  then, 
—  42  — 


in  order  to  accredit  him  to  the  spectators,  he 
adds  also  a  motive,  and  represents  him  as  being 
in  love  with  Desdemona. 

Victor  Hugo,  in  L'Homme  qui  Rit,  undertook 
to  create  a  type  after  the  manner  of  lago,  and 
invented  Barkilphedro,  who  embodies  disinter- 
ested yet  active  malice,  which  is  the  malice  of 
the  villain  of  melodrama. 

But  that  other  disinterested  malice,  which 
lurks  in  the  sodden  sediment  of  character,  that 
malice  which  is  disinterested  and  inactive,  and 
not  only  incapable  of  drawing  a  dagger  but  even 
of  writing  an  anonymous  note,  this  no  writer  but 
Dostoievski  has  had  the  penetration  to  reveal. 
He  has  shown  us  at  the  same  time  mere  inert 
goodness,  lying  passive  in  the  soul,  without  ever 
serving  as  a  basis  for  anything. 

Music  AS  A  SEDATIVE 

Music,  the  most  social  of  the  arts,  and  that 
undoubtedly  which  possesses  the  greatest  future, 
presents  enormous  attractions  to  the  bourgeoisie. 
In  the  first  place,  it  obviates  the  necessity  of  con- 
versation; it  is  not  necessary  to  know  whether 
your  neighbor  is  a  sceptic  or  a  believer,  a  mate- 
—  43  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


rialist  or  a  spiritualist;  no  possible  argument  can 
arise  concerning  the  meaning  and  metaphysics 
of  life.  Instead  of  war,  there  is  peace.  The 
music  lover  may  argue,  but  his  conceptions  are 
entirely  circumscribed  by  the  music,  and  have  no 
relation  whatever  either  to  philosophy  or  to  poli- 
tics as  such.  The  wars  are  small  wars,  and  spill 
no  blood.  A  Wagnerite  may  be  a  freethinker  or 
a  Catholic,  an  anarchist  or  a  conservative.  Even 
painting,  which  is  an  art  of  miserable  general 
ideas,  is  not  so  far  removed  from  intelligence  as 
is  music.  This  explains  why  die  Greeks  were 
able  to  attain  such  heights  in  philosophy,  and  yet 
fell  to  such  depths  in  music. 

Music  has  an  additional  merit.  It  lulls  to 
sleep  the  residuum  of  disinterested  malice  in  the 
soul. 

As  a  majority  of  the  lovers  of  painting  and 
sculpture  are  second-hand  dealers  and  Jews  in 
disguise,  music  lovers,  for  the  most  part,  are  a 
debased  people,  envious,  embittered  and  supine. 

CONCERNING  WAGNER 

I  am  one  of  those  who  do  not  understand  mu- 
sic, yet  I  am  not  completely  insensible  to  it. 
44 


FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 


This  does  not  prevent  me,  however,  from  enter- 
taining a  strong  aversion  to  all  music  lovers,  and 
especially  to  Wagnerites. 

When  Nietzsche,  who  apparently  possessed  a 
musical  temperament,  set  Bizet  up  against  Wag- 
ner, he  confessed,  of  course,  premeditated  vin- 
dictiveness.  "It  is  necessary  to  mediterranean- 
ize  music,"  declares  the  German  psychologist. 
But  'how  absurd!  Music  must  confine  itself  to 
the  geographical  parallel  where  it  was  born;  it 
is  Mediterranean,  Baltic,  Alpine,  Siberian.  Nor 
is  the  contention  valid  that  an  air  should  always 
have  a  strongly  marked  rhythm,  because,  if  this 
were  the  case,  we  should  have  nothing  but  dance 
music.  Certainly,  music  was  associated  with  the 
dance  in  the  beginning,  but  a  sufficient  number 
of  years  have  now  elapsed  to  enable  each  of  these 
arts  to  develop  independently. 

As  regards  Nietzsche's  hostility  to  the  the- 
atocracy  of  Wagner,  I  share  it  fully.  This  busi- 
ness of  substituting  the  theatre  for  the  church, 
and  teaching  philosophy  singing,  seems  ridicu- 
lous to  me.  I  am  also  out  of  patience  with  the 
wooden  dragons,  swans,  stage  fire,  thunder  and 
lightning. 

Although  it  may  sound  paradoxical,  the  fact  is 
—  45  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


that  all  this  scenery  is  in  the  way.  I  have  seen 
King  Lear  in  Paris,  at  the  Theatre  Antoine,  where 
it  was  presented  with  very  nearly  perfect  scen- 
ery. When  the  King  and  the  fool  roamed  about 
the  heath  in  the  third  act,  amid  thunder  and 
lightning,  everybody  was  gazing  at  the  clouds  in 
the  flies  and  watching  for  the  lightning,  or  lis- 
tening to  the  whistling  of  the  wind;  no  one  paid 
any  attention  to  what  was  said  by  the  characters. 

UNIVERSAL  MUSICIANS 

German  music  is  undoubtedly  the  most  uni- 
versal music,  especially  that  of  Mozart  and 
Beethoven.  It  seems  as  if  there  were  fewer  par- 
ticles of  their  native  soil  imbedded  in  the  works 
of  these  two  masters  than  is  common  among  their 
countrymen.  They  bring  out  in  sharp  relief  the 
cultural  internationalism  of  Germany. 

Mozart  is  an  epitome  of  the  grace  of  the 
eighteenth  century;  he  is  at  once  delicate,  joy- 
ous, serene,  gallant,  mischievous.  He  is  a  cour- 
tier of  whatever  country  one  will.  Sometimes, 
when  listening  to  his  music,  I  ask  myself:  "Why 
is  it  that  this,  which  must  be  of  German  origin, 
—  46  — 


FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 


seems  to  be  part  of  all  of  us,  to  have  been  de- 
signed for  us  all?" 

Beethoven,  too,  like  Mozart,  is  a  man  without 
a  country.  As  the  one  manipulates  his  joyous, 
soft,  serene  rhythms,  the  other  throbs  and  trem- 
bles with  obscure  meanings  and  pathetic,  heart- 
rending laments,  the  source  of  which  lies  hidden 
as  at  the  bottom  of  some  mine. 

He  is  a  Segismund  who  complains  against  the 
gods  and  against  his  fate  in  a  tongue  which 
knows  no  national  accent.  A  day  will  come 
when  the  negroes  of  Timbuktu  will  listen  to  Mo- 
zart's and  Beethoven's  music  and  feel  that  it  be- 
longs to  them,  as  truly  as  it  ever  did  to  the  citi- 
zens of  Munich  or  of  Vienna. 

THE  FOLK  SONG 

The  folk  song  lies  at  the  opposite  pole  from 
universal  music.  It  is  music  which  smacks  most 
of  the  soil  whereon  it  has  been  produced.  By 
its  very  nature  it  is  intelligible  at  all  times  to  all 
persons  in  the  locality,  if  only  because  music  is 
not  an  intellectual  art;  it  deals  in  rhythms,  it  does 
not  deal  in  ideas.  But  beyond  the  fact  of  its 
-4/7  — 

T?  I 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


intelligibility,  music  possesses  different  attrac- 
tions for  different  people.  The  folk  song  pre- 
serves to  us  the  very  savour  of  the  country  in 
which  we  were  born;  it  recalls  the  air,  the  cli- 
mate that  we  breathed  and  knew.  When  we  hear 
it,  it  is  as  if  all  our  ancestors  should  suddenly 
present  themselves.  I  realize  that  my  tastes  may 
be  barbaric,  but  if  there  could  only  be  one 
kind  of  music,  and  I  were  obliged  to  choose 
between  the  universal  and  the  local,  my  prefer- 
ence would  be  wholly  for  the  latter,  which  is  the 
popular  music. 

ON  THE  OPTIMISM  OF  EUNUCHS 

In  a  text  book  designed  for  the  edification  of 
research  workers — a  specimen  of  peculiarly  dis- 
agreeable tartuffery — the  histologist,  Ramon  y 
Cajal,  who,  as  a  thinker,  has  always  been  an  ab- 
solute mediocrity,  explains  what  the  young 
scholar  should  be,  in  the  same  way  that  the  Con- 
stitution of  1812  made  it  clear  what  the  ideal 
Spanish  citizen  should  be. 

So  we  know  now  the  proper  character  of  the 
young  scholar.  He  must  be  calm,  optimistic,  se- 
rene .  .  .  and  all  this  with  ten  or  twelve  coppers 
in  his  pocket! 

—  48  — 


FUNDAMENTAL  IDEAS 


Some  friends  inform  me  that  in  the  Institute 
for  Public  Education  at  Madrid,  where  an  at- 
tempt is  made  to  give  due  artistic  orientation  to 
the  pupils,  they  have  contrived  an  informal  clas- 
sification of  the  arts  in  the  order  of  their  impor- 
tance; first  comes  painting;  then,  music;  and, 
last,  literature. 

Considering  carefully  what  may  be  the  rea- 
sons for  such  a  sequence,  it  would  appear  that 
the  purpose  must  be  to  deprive  the  student  of 
any  occasion  for  becoming  pessimistic.  Cer- 
tainly nobody  will  ever  have  his  convictions  up- 
set by  looking  at  ancient  cloths  daubed  over  with 
linseed  oil,  nor  by  the  bum-ta-ra  of  music.  But, 
to  my  mind,  in  a  country  like  Spain,  it  is  better 
that  our  young  men  should  be  dissatisfied  than 
that  they  should  go  to  the  laboratory  every  day 
in  immaculate  blouses,  chatter  like  proper  young 
gentlemen  about  El  Greco,  Cezanne  and  the 
Ninth  Symphony,  and  never  have  the  brains  to 
protest  about  anything.  Back  of  all  this  cor- 
rectness may  be  divined  the  optimism  of  eunuchs. 


—  49  — 


II 

MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 
To  MY  READERS  THIRTY  YEARS  HENCE 

Among  my  books  there  are  two  distinct 
classes:  Some  I  have  written  with  more  effort 
than  pleasure,  and  others  I  have  written  with 
more  pleasure  than  effort. 

My  readers  apparently  are  not  aware  of  this 
distinction,  although  it  seems  evident  to  me. 
Can  it  be  that  true  feeling  is  of  no  value  in  a 
piece  of  literature,  as  some  of  the  decadents  have 
thought?  Can  it  be  that  enthusiasm,  weariness, 
loathing,  distress  and  ennui  never  transpire 
through  the  pages  of  a  book?  Indubitably  none 
of  them  transpire  unless  the  reader  enters  into 
the  spirit  of  the  work.  And,  in  general,  the 
reader  does  not  enter  into  the  spirit  of  my  books. 
I  cherish  a  hope  which,  perhaps,  may  be  chi- 
merical and  ridiculous,  that  the  Spanish  reader 
thirty  or  forty  years  hence,  who  takes  up  my 
books,  whose  sensibilities,  it  may  be,  have  been 
—  50  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


a  little  less  hardened  into  formalism  than  those 
of  the  reader  of  today,  will  both  appreciate  and 
dislike  me  more  intelligently. 

YOUTHFUL  WRITINGS 

As  I  turn  over  the  pages  of  my  books,  now 
already  growing  old,  I  receive  the  impression 
that,  like  a  somnambulist,  I  have  frequently 
been  walking  close  to  the  cornice  of  a  roof,  en- 
tirely unconsciously,  but  in  imminent  danger  of 
falling  off;  again,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
been  travelling  paths  beset  with  thorns,  which 
have  played  havoc  with  my  skin. 

I  have  maintained  myself  rather  clumsily  for 
the  most  part,  yet  at  times  not  without  a  certain 
degree  of  skill. 

All  my  books  are  youthful  books;  they  ex- 
press turbulence ;  perhaps  their  youth  is  a  youth 
which  is  lacking  in  force  and  vigour,  but  never- 
theless, they  are  youthful  books. 

Among  thorns  and  brambles  there  lies  con- 
cealed a  tiny  Fountain  of  Youth  in  my  soul. 
You  may  say  that  its  waters  are  bitter  and  saline, 
instead  of  being  crystalline  and  clear.  And  it 
is  true.  Yet  the  fountain  flows  on,  and  bubbles, 
—  51  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


and  gurgles  and  splashes  into  foam.  That  is 
enough  for  me.  I  do  not  wish  to  dam  it  up,  but 
to  let  the  water  run  and  remove  itself.  I  have 
always  felt  kindly  toward  anything  that  removes 
itself. 

THE  BEGINNING  AND  END  OF  THE  JOURNEY 

I  formerly  considered  myself  a  young  man  of 
protoplasmic  capabilities,  and  I  entertained  very 
little  enthusiasm  for  form  until  after  I  had  talked 
with  some  Russians.  Since  then  I  have  realized 
that  I  was  more  clean  cut,  more  Latin,  and  a 
great  deal  older  than  I  had  supposed. 

"I  see  that  you  belong  to  the  ancient  regime'9 
a  Frenchwoman  remarked  to  me  in  Rome. 

"I?     Impossible!" 

"Yes,"  she  insisted.  "You  are  a  conversa- 
tionalist. You  are  not  an  elegant,  sprucely 
dressed  abbe;  you  are  an  abbe  who  is  cynical 
and  ill-natured,  who  likes  to  fancy  himself  a  sav- 
age amid  the  comfortable  surroundings  of  the 
drawing-room." 

The  Frenchwoman's  observation  set  me  to 
thinking. 

—  52  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


Can  it  be  that  I  am  hovering  in  the  vicinity  of 
Apollo's  Temple  without  realizing  it? 

Possibly  my  literary  life  has  been  merely  a 
journey  from  the  Valley  of  Dionysus  to  the  Tem- 
ple of  Apollo.  Now  somebody  will  tell  me  that 
art  begins  only  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  Temple 
of  Apollo.  And  it  is  true.  But  there  is  where 
I  stop — on  the  bottom  step. 

MELLOWNESS  AND  THE  CRITICAL  SENSE 

Whenever  my  artistic  conscience  reproaches 
me,  I  always  think:  If  I  were  to  undertake  to 
write  these  books  today,  now  that  I  am  aware  of 
their  defects,  I  should  never  write  them.  Never- 
theless, I  continue  to  write  others  with  the  same 
old  faults.  Shall  I  ever  attain  that  mellowness 
of  soul  in  which  all  the  vividness  of  impression 
remains,  yet  in  which  it  has  become  possible 
to  perfect  the  expression?  I  fear  not.  Most 
likely,  when  I  reach  the  stage  of  refining  the  ex- 
pression, I  shall  have  nothing  to  say,  and  so 
remain  silent. 


—  53  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


SENSIBILITY 

In  my  books,  as  in  most  that  are  modern,  there 
is  an  indefinable  resentment  against  life  and 
against  society. 

Resentment  against  life  is  of  far  more  ancient 
standing  than  resentment  against  society. 

The  former  has  always  been  a  commonplace 
among  philosophers. 

Life  is  absurd,  life  is  difficult  of  direction,  life 
is  a  disease,  the  better  part  of  the  philosophers 
have  told  us. 

When  man  turned  his  animosity  against  so- 
ciety, it  became  the  fashion  to  exalt  life.  Life  is 
good;  man,  naturally,  is  magnanimous,  it  was 
said.  Society  has  made  him  bad. 

I  am  convinced  that  life  is  neither  good  nor 
bad;  it  is  like  Nature,  necessary.  And  society 
is  neither  good  nor  bad.  It  is  bad  for  the  man 
who  is  endowed  with  a  sensibility  which  is  exces- 
sive for  his  age;  it  is  good  for  a  man  who  finds 
himself  in  harmony  with  his  surroundings. 

A  negro  will  walk  naked  through  a  forest  in 

which  every  drop  of  water  is  impregnated  with 

millions  of  paludal  germs,  which  teems  with 

insects,  the  bites  of  which  produce  malignant  ab- 

—  54  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


cesses,  and  where  the  temperature  reaches  fifty 
degrees  Centigrade  in  the  shade. 

A  European,  accustomed  to  the  sheltered  life 
of  the  city,  when  brought  face  to  face  with  such  a 
tropical  climate,  without  means  of  protection, 
would  die. 

Man  needs  to  be  endowed  with  a  sensibility 
which  is  proper  to  his  epoch  and  his  environ- 
ment; if  he  has  less,  his  life  will  be  merely  that 
of  a  child;  if  he  has  just  the  right  measure,  it 
will  be  the  life  of  an  adult;  if  he  has  more,  he 
will  be  an  invalid. 

ON  DEVOURING  ONE'S  OWN  GOD 

It*  is  said  that  the  philosopher  Averroes  was 
wont  to  remark:  "What  a  sect  these  Christians 
are,  who  devour  their  own  God!" 

It  would  seem  that  this  divine  alimentation 
ought  to  make  men  themselves  divine.  But  it 
does  not;  our  theophagists  are  human — they  are 
only  too  human,  as  Nietzsche  would  have  it. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  the  Southern 

European  races  are  the  most  vivacious,  the  most 

energetic,  as  well  as  the  toughest  in  the  world. 

They  have  produced  all  the  great  conquerors. 

—  55  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


Christianity,  when  it  found  it  necessary  to  over- 
come them,  innoculated  them  with  its  Semitic 
virus,  but  this  virus  has  not  only  failed  to  make 
them  weaker,  but,  on  the  contrary,  it  has  made 
them  stronger.  They  appropriated  what  suited 
them  in  the  Asiatic  mentality,  and  proceeded  to 
make  a  weapon  of  their  religion.  These  cruel 
Levantine  races,  thanks  only  to  Teutonic  pene- 
tration, are  at  last  submitting  to  a  softening  proc- 
ess, and  they  will  become  completely  softened 
upon  the  establishment  in  Europe  of  the  domina- 
tion of  the  Slav. 

Meanwhile  they  maintain  their  sway  in  their 
own  countries. 

"They  are  quite  inoffensive,"  we  are  told. 

Nonsense!  They  would  burn  Giordano  Bruno 
as  willingly  now  as  they  did  in  the  old  days. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  fire  remaining  in  the 
hearts  of  our  theophagists. 

ANARCHISM 

In  an  article  appearing  in  Hermes,  a  magazine 

published  in  Bilbao,  Salaverria  assumes  that  I 

have  been  cured  of  my  anarchism,  and  that  I 

persist  in  a  negative  and  anarchistic  attitude  in 

—  56  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


order  to  retain  my  literary  clientele;  which  is 
not  the  fact.  In  the  first  place,  I  can  scarcely 
be  said  to  have  a  clientele;  in  the  second  place, 
a  small  following  of  conservatives  is  much  more 
lucrative  than  a  large  one  of  anarchists.  It  is 
true  that  I  am  withdrawing  myself  from  the  fes- 
tivals of  Pan  and  the  cult  of  Dionysus,  but  I  am 
not  substituting  for  them,  either  outwardly  or  in- 
wardly, the  worship  of  Yahveh  or  of  Moloch. 
I  have  no  liking  for  Semitic  traditions — none 
and  none  whatever!  I  am  not  able,  like  Sala- 
verria,  to  admire  the  rich  simply  because  they 
are  rich,  nor  people  in  high  stations  because  they 
happen  to  occupy  them. 

Salaverria  assumes  that  I  have  a  secret  ad- 
miration for  grand  society,  generals,  magistrates, 
wealthy  gentlemen  from  America,  and  Argen- 
tines who  shout  out:  "How  perfectly  splendid!" 
I  have  the  same  affection  for  these  things  that  I 
have  for  the  cows  which  clutter  up  the  road  in 
front  of  my  house.  I  would  not  be  Fouquier- 
Tinville  to  the  former  nor  butcher  to  the  latter; 
but  my  affection  then  has  reached  its  limit. 
Even  when  I  find  something  worthy  of  admira- 
tion, my  inclination  is  toward  the  small.  I  pre- 
fer the  Boboli  Gardens  to  those  of  Versailles, 
—  57  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


and  Venetian  or  Florentine  history  to  that  of 
India. 

Great  states,  great  captains,  great  kings,  great 
gods,  leave  me  cold.  They  are  all  for  peoples 
who  dwell  on  vast  plains  which  are  crossed 
by  mighty  rivers,  for  the  Egyptians,  for  the 
Chinese,  for  the  Hindus,  for  the  Germans,  for 
the  French. 

We  Europeans  who  are  of  the  region  of  the 
Pyrenees  and  the  Alps,  love  small  states,  small 
rivers,  and  small  gods,  whom  we  may  address 
familiarly. 

Salaverria  is  also  mistaken  when  he  says  that 
I  am  afraid  of  change.  I  am  not  afraid.  My 
nature  is  to  change.  I  am  predisposed  to  de- 
velop, to  move  from  here  to  there,  to  reverse  my 
literary  and  political  views  if  my  feelings  or  my 
ideas  alter.  I  avoid  no  reading  except  that 
which  is  dull;  I  shall  never  retreat  from  any 
performance  except  a  vapid  one,  nor  am  I  a 
partisan  either  of  austerity  or  of  consistency. 
Moreover,  I  am  not  a  little  dissatisfied  with  my- 
self, and  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  turning  completely  about,  if  only  to 
prove  to  myself  that  I  am  capable  of  a  shift  of 
attitude  Which  is  sincere. 

—  58  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


NEW  PATHS 

Some  months  since  three  friends  met  together 
in  an  old-fashioned  bookshop  on  the  venerable 
Calle  del  Olivo — a  writer,  a  printer,  and  myself. 

"Fifteen  years  ago  all  three  of  us  were  an- 
archists," remarked  the  printer. 

"What  are  we  today?"  I  inquired. 

"We  are  conservatives,"  replied  the  man  who 
wrote.  "What  are  you?" 

"I  believe  that  I  have  the  same  ideas  I  had 
then." 

"You  have  not  developed  if  that  is  so,"  re- 
torted the  writer  with  a  show  of  scorn. 

I  should  like  to  develop,  but  into  what?  How? 
Where  am  I  to  find  the  way? 

When  sitting  beside  the  chimney,  warming 
your  feet  by  the  fire  as  you  watch  the  flames,  it 
is  easy  to  imagine  that  there  may  be  novel  walks 
to  explore  in  the  neighbourhood;  but  when  you 
come  to  look  at  the  map  you  find  that  there  is 
nothing  new  in  the  whole  countryside. 

We  are  told  that  ambition  means  growth.  It 
does  not  with  me.  Ortega  y  Gasset  believes  that 
I  am  a  man  who  is  constitutionally  unbribable. 

I  should  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,  but  I  do  say 
59 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


that  I  do  not  believe  that  I  could  be  bribed  in 
cold  blood  by  die  offer  of  material  things.  If 
Mephistopheles  wishes  to  purchase  my  soul,  he 
cannot  do  it  with  a  decoration  or  with  a  title;  but 
if  he  were  to  offer  me  sympathy,  and  be  a  little 
effusive  while  he  is  about  it,  adding  then  a  touch 
of  sentiment,  I  am  convinced  that  he  could  get 
away  with  it  quite  easily. 

LONGING  FOR  CHANGE 

Just  as  the  aim  of  politicians  is  to  appear  con- 
stant and  consistent,  artists  and  literary  men  as- 
pire to  change. 

Would  that  the  desire  of  one  were  as  easy  of 
attainment  as  that  of  the  other! 

To  change!  To  develop!  To  acquire  a  sec- 
ond personality  which  shall  be  different  from  the 
first!  This  is  given  only  to  men  of  genius  and 
to  saints.  Thus  Caesar,  Luther,  and  Saint  Igna- 
tius each  lived  two  distinct  lives ;  or,  rather,  per- 
haps, it  was  one  life,  with  sides  that  were  obverse 
and  reverse. 

The  same  thing  occurs  sometimes  also  among 
painters.     The  evolution  of  El  Greco  in  paint- 
ing upsets  the  whole  theory  of  art. 
—  60  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


There  is  no  instance  of  a  like  transformation 
either  in  ancient  or  modern  literature.  Some 
such  change  has  been  imputed  to  Goethe,  but  I 
see  nothing  more  in  this  author  than  a  short  pre- 
liminary period  of  exalted  feeling,  followed  by 
a  lifetime  dominated  by  study  and  the  intellect. 

Among  other  writers  there  is  not  even  the  sug- 
gestion of  change.  Shakespeare  is  alike  in  all 
his  works;  Calderon  and  Cervantes  are  always 
the  same,  and  this  is  equally  true  of  our  modern 
authors.  The  first  pages  of  Dickens,  of  Tolstoi 
or  of  Zola  could  be  inserted  among  the  last,  and 
nobody  would  be  the  wiser. 

Even  the  erudite  rhetorical  poets,  the  Victor 
Hugos,  the  Gautiers,  and  our  Spanish  Zorrillas, 
never  get  outside  of  their  own  rhetoric. 


BAROJA,  You  WILL  NEVER  AMOUNT  TO 
ANYTHING 

(A  Refrain) 

"Baroja  does  not  amount  to  anything,  and  I 
presume  that  he  will  never  amount  to  anything," 
Ortega  y  Gasset  observes  in  the  first  issue  of  the 
Spectator. 

—  61  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


I  'have  a  suspicion  myself  that  I  shall  never 
amount  to  anything.  Everybody  who  knows  me 
has  always  thought  the  same. 

When  I  first  went  to  school  in  San  Sebastian, 
at  the  age  of  four — and  it  has  rained  a  great 
deal  since  that  day — the  teacher,  Don  Leon 
Sanchez  y  Calleja,  who  made  a  practice  of 
thrashing  us  with  a  very  stiff  pointer  (oh,  these 
hallowed  traditions  of  our  ancestors!),  looked 
me  over  and  said : 

"This  boy  will  prove  to  be  as  sulky  as  his 
brother.  He  will  never  amount  to  anything." 

I  studied  for  a  time  in  the  Institute  of  Pam- 
plona with  Don  Gregorio  Pano,  who  taught  us 
mathematics ;  and  this  old  gentleman,  who  looked 
like  the  Commander  in  Don  Juan  Tenorio,  with 
his  frozen  face  and  his  white  beard,  remarked  to 
me  in  his  sepulchral  voice: 

"You  are  not  going  to  be  an  engineer  like 
your  father.  You  will  never  amount  to  any- 
thing." 

When  I  took  therapeutics  under  Don  Benito 
Hernando  in  San  Carlos,  Don  Benito  planted 
himself  in  front  of  me  and  said : 

"That  smile  of  yours,  that  little  smile  .  .  . 
it  is  impertinent.     Don't  you  come  to  me  with 
—  62  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


any  of  your  satirical  smiles.  You  will  never 
amount  to  anything,  unless  it  is  negative  and 
useless." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

Women  who  have  known  me  always  tell  me: 
"You  will  never  amount  to  anything." 

And  a  friend  who  was  leaving  for  America 
volunteered : 

"When  I  return  in  twenty  or  thirty  years,  I 
shall  find  all  my  acquaintances  situated  differ- 
ently: one  will  have  become  rich,  another  will 
have  ruined  himself,  this  fellow  will  have  en- 
tered the  cabinet,  that  one  will  have  been  swal- 
lowed up  in  a  small  town;  but  you  will  be  ex- 
actly what  you  are  today,  you  will  live  the  same 
life,  and  you  will  have  just  two  pesetas  in  your 
pocket.  That  is  as  far  as  you  will  get." 

The  idea  that  I  shall  never  amount  to  any- 
thing is  now  deeply  rooted  in  my  soul.  It  is 
evident  that  I  shall  never  become  a  deputy,  nor 
an  academician,  nor  a  Knight  of  Isabella  the 
Catholic,  nor  a  captain  of  industry,  nor  alder- 
man, nor  Member  of  the  Council,  nor  a  common 
cheat,  nor  shall  I  ever  possess  a  good  black 
suit. 

And  yet  when  a  man  has  passed  forty,  when 
—  63  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


his  belly  begins  to  take  on  adipose  tissue  and 
he  puffs  out  with  ambition,  he  ought  to  be  some- 
thing, to  sport  a  title,  to  wear  a  ribbon,  to  array 
himself  in  a  black  frock  coat  and  a  white  waist- 
coat; but  these  ambitions  are  denied  to  me.  The 
professors  of  my  childhood  and  my  youth  rise 
up  before  my  eyes  like  the  ghost  of  Banquo,  and 
proclaim:  "Baroja,  you  will  never  amount  to 
anything." 

When  I  go  down  to  the  seashore,  the  waves 
lap  my  feet  and  murmur:  "Baroja,  you  will 
never  amount  to  anything."  The  wise  owl  that 
perches  at  night  on  our  roof  at  Itzea  calls  to  me: 
"Baroja,  you  will  never  amount  to  anything," 
and  even  the  crows,  winging  their  way  across  the 
sky,  incessantly  shout  at  me  from  above :  "Bar- 
oja, you  will  never  amount  to  anything." 

And  I  am  convinced  that  I  never  shall  amount 
to  anything. 

THE  PATRIOTISM  OF  DESIRE 

I  may  not  appear  to  be  a  very  great  patriot, 

but,  nevertheless,  I  am.     Yet  I  am  unable  to 

make  my  Spanish  or  Basque  blood  an  exclusive 

criterion  for  judging  the  world.     If  I  believe 

—  64  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


that  a  better  orientation  may  be  acquired  by  as- 
suming an  international  point  of  view,  I  do  not 
hold  it  improper  to  cease  to  feel,  momentarily, 
as  a  Spaniard  or  a  Basque. 

In  spite  of  this,  a  longing  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  what  shall  be  for  the  greatest  good  of 
my  country,  normally  obsesses  my  mind,  but  I 
am  wanting  in  the  patriotism  of  lying. 

I  should  like  to  have  Spain  the  best  place  in 
the  world,  and  the  Basque  country  the  best  part 
of  Spain. 

The  feeling  is  such  a  natural  and  common  one 
that  it  seems  scarcely  worth  while  to  explain  it. 

The  climate  of  Touraine  or  of  Tuscany,  the 
Swiss  lakes,  the  Rhine  and  its  castles,  whatever 
is  best  in  Europe,  I  would  root  up,  if  I  had  my 
say,  and  set  down  here  between  the  Pyrenees  and 
the  Straits  of  Gibraltar.  At  the  same  time,  I 
should  denationalize  Shakespeare,  Dickens,  Tol- 
stoi and  Dostoievski,  making  them  Spaniards. 
I  should  see  that  the  best  laws  and  the  best 
customs  were  those  of  our  country.  But  wholly 
apart  from  this  patriotism  of  desire,  lies  the 
reality.  What  is  to  be  gained  by  denying  it? 
To  my  mind  nothing  is  to  be  gained. 

There  are  many  to  whom  the  only  genuine 
—  65  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


patriotism  is  the  patriotism  of  lying,  which  in 
fact  is  more  of  a  matter  of  rhetoric  than  it  is  of 
feeling. 

Our  falsifying  patriots  are  always  engaged  in 
furious  combat  with  other  equally  falsifying  in- 
ternationalists. 

"Nothing  but  what  we  have  is  of  any  ac- 
count," cries  one  party. 

"No,  it  is  what  the  other  fellow  has,"  cries  the 
other. 

Patriotism  is  telling  the  truth  as  to  one's  coun- 
try, in  a  sympathetic  spirit  which  is  guided  and 
informed  by  a  love  of  that  which  is  best. 

Now  some  one  will  say:  "Your  patriotism, 
then,  is  nothing  but  an  extension  of  your  ego;  it 
is  purely  utilitarian." 

Absolutely  so.  But  how  can  there  be  any 
other  kind  of  patriotism? 

MY  HOME  LANDS 

I  have  two   little  countries,   which   are   my 

homes- — the  Basque  provinces,  and  Castile;  and 

by  Castile  I  mean  Old  Castile.     I  have,  further, 

two  points  of  view  from  which  I  look  out  upon 

—  66  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


the  world:  one  is  my  home  on  the  Atlantic;  the 
other  is  very  like  a  home  to  me,  on  the  Med- 
iterranean. 

All  my  literary  inspirations  spring  either  from 
the  Basque  provinces  or  from  Castile.  I  could 
never  write  a  Gallegan  or  a  Catalan  novel. 

I  could  wish  that  my  readers  were  all  Basques 
and  Castilians. 

Other  Spaniards  interest  me  less.  Spaniards 
who  live  in  America,  or  Americans,  do  not  in- 
terest me  at  all. 

CRUELTY  AND  STUPIDITY 

It  appears  from  an  article  written  by  Azorin 
in  connection  with  a  book  of  mine,  that,  to  my 
way  of  thinking,  there  are  two  enormities  which 
are  incredible  and  intolerable.  They  are  cruelty 
and  stupidity. 

Civilized  man  has  no  choice  but  to  despise 
these  manifestations  of  primitive,  brute  exist- 
ence. 

We  may  be  able  to  tolerate  stupidity  and  lack 
of  comprehension  when  they  are  simple  and 
wholly  natural,  but  what  of  an  utter  obtuseness 
—  67  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


of  understanding  which  dresses  itself  up  and 
becomes  rhetorical?  Can  anything  be  more  dis- 
agreeable? 

When  a  fly  devours  the  pollen  greedily  from 
the  pyrethrum,  which,  as  we  know,  will  prove 
fatal  to  him,  it  becomes  clear  at  once  that  flies 
have  no  more  innate  sagacity  than  men.  When 
we  listen  to  a  conservative  orator  defending  the 
past  with  salvos  of  rhetorical  fireworks,  we  are 
overwhelmed  by  a  realization  of  the  complete 
odiousness  of  ornamental  stupidity. 

With  cruelty  it  is  much  the  same.  The  habits 
of  the  sphex  surprise  while  bull  fights  disgust 
us.  The  more  cruelty  and  stupidity  are  dressed 
up,  the  more  hateful  they  become. 

THE  ANTERIOR  IMAGE 

I  wrote  an  article  once  called,  "The  Spaniard 
Fails  to  Understand."  While  I  do  not  say  it 
was  good,  the  idea  had  some  truth  in  it.  It  is 
a  fact  that  failure  to  understand  is  not  exclu- 
sively a  Spanish  trait,  but  the  failing  is  a  hu- 
man one  which  is  more  accentuated  among  peo- 
ples of  backward  culture,  whose  vitality  is  great. 

Like  a  child  the  Spaniard  carries  an  anterior 
—  68  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


image  in  his  mind,  to  which  he  submits  his  per- 
ceptions. A  child  is  able  to  recognize  a  man 
or  a  horse  more  easily  in  a  toy  than  in  a  paint- 
ing by  Raphael  or  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  be- 
cause the  form  of  the  toy  adapts  itself  more 
readily  to  the  anterior  image  which  he  has  in 
his  consciousness. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  Spaniard.  Here  is  one 
of  the  causes  of  his  want  of  comprehension. 
One  rejects  what  does  not  fit  in  with  one's  pre- 
conceived scheme  of  things. 

I  once  rode  to  Valencia  with  two  priests  who 
were  by  no  means  unknown.  One  of  them  had 
been  in  the  convent  of  Loyola  at  Azpeitia  for 
four  years.  We  talked  about  our  respective 
homes ;  they  eulogized  the  Valencian  plain  while 
I  replied  that  I  preferred  the  mountains.  As 
we  passed  some  bare,  treeless  hills  such  as 
abound  near  Chinchilla,  one  of  them — the  one, 
in  fact,  who  had  been  at  Loyola — remarked  to 
me: 

"This  must  remind  you  of  your  own  country." 

I  was  dumbfounded.     How  could  he  identify 

those    arid,    parched,    glinting    rocks    with    the 

Basque  landscape,  with  the  humid,  green,  shaded 

countryside  of  Azpeitia?     It  was  easy  to  see 

—  69  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


that  the  anterior  image  of  a  landscape  existing 
in  the  mind  of  that  priest,  provided  only  the 
general  idea  of  a  mountain,  and  that  he  was  un- 
able to  distinguish,  as  I  was,  between  a  green 
mountain  overgrown  with  turf  and  trees,  and  an 
arid  hillside  of  dry  rocks. 

An  hypothesis  explaining  the  formation  of 
visual  ideas  has  been  formulated  by  Wundt, 
which  he  calls  the  hypothesis  of  projection.  It 
attributes  to  the  retina  an  innate  power  of  re- 
ferring its  impressions  outward  along  straight 
lines,  in  directions  which  are  determined. 

According  to  Miiller,  who  has  adopted  this  hy- 
pothesis, what  we  perceive  is  our  own  retina  un- 
der the  category  of  space,  and  the  size  of  the 
retinal  image  is  the  original  unit  of  measure- 
ment applied  by  us  to  exterior  objects. 

The  Spaniard  like  a  child,  will  have  to  am- 
plify his  retinal  image,  if  he  is  ever  to  amount 
to  anything.  He  will  have  to  amplify  it,  and, 
no  doubt,  complicate  it  also. 

THE  TRAGI-COMEDY  OF  SEX 

It  is  very  difficult  to  approach  the  sex  ques- 
tion and  to  treat  it  at  once  in  a  clear  and  digni- 
—  70  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


fied  manner.  And  yet,  who  can  deny  that  it 
furnishes  the  key  to  the  solution  of  many  of  the 
enigmas  and  obscurities  of  psychology? 

Who  can  question  that  sex  is  one  of  the  bases 
of  temperament? 

Nevertheless,  the  subject  may  be  discussed 
permissibly  in  scientific  and  very  general  terms, 
as  by  Professor  Freud.  What  is  unpardonable 
is  any  attempt  to  bring  it  down  to  the  sphere  of 
the  practical  and  concrete. 

I  am  convinced  that  the  repercussion  of  the 
sexual  life  is  felt  through  all  the  phenomena  of 
consciousness. 

According  to  Freud,  an  unsatisfied  desire  pro- 
duces a  series  of  obscure  movements  in  con- 
sciousness which  eat  at  the  soul  as  electricity 
is  generated  in  a  storage  battery,  and  this  ac- 
cumulation of  psychic  energy  must  needs  pro- 
duce a  disturbance  in  the  nervous  system. 

Such  nervous  disturbances,  which  are  of  sex- 
ual origin,  produced  by  the  strangulation  of  de- 
sires, shape  our  mentality. 

What  is  the  proper  conduct  for  a  man  during 

the  critical  years  between  the  ages  of  fourteen 

and   twenty-three?     He   should   be   chaste,   the 

priests  will  say,  shutting  their  eyes  with  an  hypo- 

—  71  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


critical  air.  He  can  marry  afterwards  and  be- 
come a  father. 

A  man  who  can  be  chaste  without  discomfort 
between  fourteen  and  twenty-three,  is  endowed 
with  a  most  unusual  temperament.  And  it  is 
one  which  is  not  very  common  at  present.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  young  men  are  not  chaste,  and 
cannot  be. 

Society,  as  it  is  well  aware  of  this,  opens  a 
little  loophole  to  sexuality,  which  is  free  from 
social  embarrassment — the  loophole  of  prostitu- 
tion. 

As  the  bee-hive  has  its  workers,  society  has 
its  prostitutes. 

After  a  few  years  of  sexual  life  without  the 
walls,  passed  in  the  surrounding  moats  of  pros- 
titution, the  normal  man  is  prepared  for  mar- 
riage, with  its  submission  to  social  forms  and 
to  standards  which  are  clearly  absurd. 

There  is  no  possibility  of  escaping  this  di- 
lemma which  has  been  decreed  by  society. 

The  alternative  is  perversion  or  surrender. 

To  a  man  of  means,  who  has  money  to  spend, 
surrender  is  not  very  difficult;  he  has  but  to 
follow  the  formula.  Prostitution  among  the  up- 
per classes  does  not  offend  the  eye,  and  it  reveals 
—  72  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


none  of  the  sores  which  deface  prostitution  as 
it  is  practised  among  the  poor.  Marriage,  too, 
does  not  sit  heavily  upon  the  rich.  With  the 
poor,  however,  shame  and  surrender  walk  hand 
in  hand. 

To  practise  the  baser  forms  of  prostitution  is 
to  elbow  all  that  is  most  vile  in  society,  and 
to  sink  to  its  level  oneself.  Then,  to  marry  aft- 
erwards without  adequate  means,  is  a  continual 
act  of  self-abasement.  It  is  to  be  unable  to 
maintain  one's  convictions,  it  is  to  be  compelled 
to  fawn  upon  one's  superiors,  and  this  is  more 
true  in  Spain  than  it  is  elsewhere,  as  everything 
here  must  be  obtained  through  personal  influ- 
ence. 

Suppose  one  does  not  submit?  If  you  do  not 
submit  you  are  lost.  You  are  condemned  ir- 
retrievably to  perversions,  to  debility,  to  hys- 
teria. 

You  will  find  yourself  slinking  about  the 
other  sex  like  a  famished  wolf,  you  will  live 
obsessed  by  lewd  ideas,  your  mind  will  solace 
itself  with  swindles  and  cheats  wherewith  to  pro- 
vide a  solution  of  the  riddle  of  existence,  you 
will  become  the  mangy  sheep  that  the  shepherd 
sets  apart  from  the  flock. 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


Ever  since  early  youth,  I  have  been  clearly 
conscious  of  this  dilemma,  and  I  have  deter- 
mined and  said:  "No;  I  choose  the  abnormal 
— give  me  hysteria,  but  submission,  never!" 

So  derangement  and  distortion  have  come  to 
my  mind. 

If  I  could  have  followed  my  inclinations 
freely  during  those  fruitful  years  between  fifteen 
and  twenty-five,  I  should  have  been  a  serene 
person,  a  little  sensual,  perhaps,  and  perhaps  a 
little  cynical,  but  I  should  certainly  not  have 
become  violent. 

The  morality  of  our  social  system  has  dis- 
turbed and  upset  me. 

For  this  reason  I  hate  it  cordially,  and  I  vent 
upon  it  in  full  measure,  as  best  I  may,  all  the 
spleen  I  have  to  give. 

I  like  at  times  to  disguise  this  poison  under  a 
covering  of  art. 

THE  VEILS  OF  THE  SEXUAL  LIFE 

I  am  unable  to  feel  any  spontaneous  enthus- 
iasm for  fecundity  such  as  that  which  Zola  sings. 
Moreover,  I  regard  the  whole  pose  as  a  supersti- 
tion. I  may  be  a  member  of  an  exhausted  race, 

—  74  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


— that  is  quite  possible, — but  between  the  devo- 
tion to  our  species  which  is  professed  by  these 
would-be  re-peoplers  of  countries,  and  the  purely 
selfish  preoccupation  of  the  Malthusians,  my 
sympathies  are  all  with  the  latter.  I  see  noth- 
ing beyond  the  individual  in  this  sex  question — 
beyond  the  individual  who  finds  himself  in- 
hibited by  sexual  morality. 

This  question  must  be  faced  some  day  and 
cleared  up,  it  must  be  seen  divested  of  all  mys- 
tery, of  all  veils,  of  all  deceit.  As  the  hygiene 
of  nutrition  has  been  studied  openly,  in  broad 
daylight,  so  it  must  be  with  sex  hygiene. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  notion  of  sin,  then, 
that  of  honour,  and,  finally,  dread  of  syphilis 
and  other  sexual  diseases,  rest  like  a  cloud  on 
the  sexual  life,  and  they  are  jumbled  together 
with  all  manner  of  fantastic  and  literary  fictions. 

Obviously,  rigid  sexual  morality  is  for  the 
most  part  nothing  more  than  the  practice  of  econ- 
omy in  disguise.  Let  us  face  this  whole  prob- 
lem frankly.  A  man  has  no  right  to  let  his  life 
slip  by  to  gratify  fools'  follies.  We  must  have 
regard  to  what  is,  with  Stendhal.  It  will  be 
argued  of  course  that  these  veils,  these  subter- 
fuges of  the  sexual  life,  are  necessary.  No 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


doubt  they  are  to  society,  but  they  are  not  to 
the  individual.  There  are  those  who  believe 
that  the  interests  of  the  individual  and  of  so- 
ciety are  one,  but  we,  who  are  defenders  of  the 
individual  as  against  the  State,  do  not  think  so. 

A  LITTLE  TALK 

Myself:  I  often  think  I  should  have  been 
happier  if  I  had  been  impotent. 

My  Hearers:  How  can  you  say  such  a  ter- 
rible thing? 

Myself:  Why  not?  To  a  man  like  me,  sex 
is  nothing  but  a  source  of  misery,  shame  and 
cheap  hypocrisy,  as  it  is  to  most  of  us  who  are 
obliged  to  get  on  without  sufficient  means  under 
this  civilization  of  ours.  Now  you  know  why  I 
think  that  I  should  have  been  better  off  if  I  had 
been  impotent. 

UPON  THE  SUPPOSED  MORALITY  OF  MARRIAGE 

Single  life  is  said  to  be  selfish  and  detestable. 
Certainly  it  is  immoral.  But  what  of  marriage? 
Is  it  as  moral  as  it  is  painted? 

I  am  one  who  doubts  it. 
—  76  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


Marriage,  like  all  other  social  institutions  of 
consequence,  is  surrounded  by  a  whole  series 
of  common  assumptions  that  cry  out  to  be  cleared 
up. 

There  is  a  pompous  and  solemn  side  to  mar- 
riage, and  there  is  a  private  museum  side. 

Marriage  poses  as  an  harmonious  general  con- 
cord in  which  religion,  society,  and  nature  join. 

But  is  it  anything  of  the  kind?  It  would  ap- 
pear to  be  doubtful.  If  the  sole  purpose  of 
marriage  is  to  rear  children,  a  man  ought  to 
live  with  a  woman  only  until  she  becomes  preg- 
nant, and,  after  that  moment,  he  ought  not  to 
touch  her.  But  here  begins  the  second  part. 
The  woman  bears  a  baby;  the  baby  is  nourished 
by  the  mother's  milk.  The  man  has  no  right  to 
co-habit  with  his  wife  during  this  period  either, 
because  it  will  be  at  the  risk  of  depriving  the 
child  of  its  natural  source  of  nutriment. 

In  consequence,  a  man  must  either  co-habit 
with  his  wife  once  in  two  years,  or  else  there 
will  be  some  default  in  the  marriage. 

What  is  he  to  do?  What  is  the  moral  course? 
Remember  that  three  factors  have  combined  to 
impose  the  marriage.  One,  the  most  far-reach- 
ing today,  is  economic;  another,  which  is  also 
—  77  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


extremely  important,  is  social,  and  the  third, 
now  rapidly  losing  its  hold,  but  still  not  with- 
out influence,  is  religious.  The  three  forces  to- 
gether attempt  to  mould  nature  to  their  will. 

Economic  pressure  and  the  high  cost  of  liv- 
ing make  against  the  having  of  children.  They 
encourage  default. 

"How  are  we  to  have  all  these  children?"  the 
married  couple  asks.  "How  can  we  feed  and 
educate  them?" 

Social  pressure  also  tends  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. Religious  morality,  however,  still  per- 
sists in  its  idea  of  sin,  although  the  potency  of 
this  sanction  is  daily  becoming  less,  even  to  the 
clerical  eye. 

If  nature  had  a  vote,  it  would  surely  be 
cast  in  favour  of  polygamy.  Man  is  forever 
sexual,  and  in  equal  degree,  until  the  verge 
of  decrepitude.  Woman  passes  through  the 
stages  of  fecundation,  pregnancy,  and  lacta- 
tion. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  the  most  con- 
venient, the  most  logical  and  the  most  moral 
system  of  sexual  intercourse,  naturally,  is  po- 
lygamy. 

But  the  economic  subdues  the  natural.  Who 
—  78  — 


MYSELF,  THE  WRITER 


proposes  to  have  five  wives  when  he  cannot  feed 
one? 

Society  has  made  man  an  exclusively  social 
product,  and  set  him  apart  from  nature. 

What  can  the  husband  and  wife  do,  especially 
when  they  are  poor?  Must  they  overload  them- 
selves with  children,  and  then  deliver  them  up 
to  poverty  and  neglect  because  God  has  given 
them,  or  shall  they  limit  their  number? 

If  my  opinion  is  asked,  I  advise  a  limit — al- 
though it  may  be  artificial  and  immoral. 

Marriage  presents  us  with  this  simple  choice: 
we  may  either  elect  the  slow,  filthy  death  of  the 
indigent  workingman,  of  the  carabineer  who 
lives  in  a  shack  which  teems  with  children,  or 
else  the  clean  life  of  the  French,  who  limit  their 
offspring. 

The  middle  class  everywhere  today  is  accept- 
ing the  latter  alternative.  Marriage  is  stripping 
off  its  morality  in  the  bushes,  and  it  is  well  that  it 
should  do  so. 

THE  SOVEREIGN  CROWD 

A  strong  man  may  either  dominate  and  subdue 
the  sovereign  crowd  when  he  confronts  it,  as  he 
—  79  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


would  a  wild  beast,  or  he  may  breathe  his 
thoughts  and  ideas  into  it,  which  is  only  another 
form  of  domination. 

As  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  do  either,  I  shun 
the  sovereign  masses,  so  as  not  to  become  too 
keenly  conscious  of  their  collective  bestiality  and 
ill  temper. 

THE  REMEDY 

Every  man  fancies  that  he  has  something  of 
the  doctor  in  him,  and  considers  himself  compe- 
tent to  advise  some  sort  of  a  cure,  so  I  come  now 
with  a  remedy  for  the  evils  of  life.  My  remedy 
is  constant  action.  It  is  a  cure  as  old  as  the 
world,  and  it  may  be  as  useful  as  any  other, 
and  doubtless  it  is  as  futile  as  all  the  rest.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  no  remedy  at  all. 

The  springs  of  action  lie  all  within  ourselves, 
and  they  derive  from  the  vigour  and  health  which 
we  have  inherited  from  our  fathers.  The  man 
who  possesses  them  may  draw  on  them  whenever 
he  will,  but  the  man  who  is  without  them  can 
never  acquire  them,  no  matter  how  widely  he 
may  seek. 

—  80  — 


Ill 

THE  EXTRARADIUS 

The  extraradius  of  a  writer  may  be  said  to  be 
made  up  of  his  literary  opinions  and  inclina- 
tions. I  wish  to  expose  the  literary  cell  from  the 
nucleus  out  and  to  unfold  it,  instead  of  proceed- 
ing in  from  the  covering. 

The  term  may  seem  pedantic  and  histological, 
but  it  has  the  attraction  to  my  mind  of  a  remi- 
niscence of  student  days. 

RHETORIC  AND  ANTI-RHETORIC 

If  I  were  to  formulate  my  opinions  upon 
style,  I  should  say:  "Imitations  of  other  men's 
styles  are  bad,  but  a  man's  own  style  is  good." 

There  is  a  store  of  common  literary  finery, 
almost  all  of  which  is  in  constant  use  and  has 
'become  familiar. 

When  a  writer  lays  hands  on  any  of  this 
finery  spontaneously,  he  makes  it  his  own,  and 
the  familiar  flower  blossoms  as  it  does  in  Na- 
—  81  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


ture.  When  an  author's  inspiration  does  not 
proceed  from  within  out,  but  rather  from  with- 
out in,  then  he  becomes  at  once  a  bad  rhetori- 
cian. 

I  am  one  of  those  writers  who  employ  the 
least  possible  amount  of  this  common  store  of 
rhetoric.  There  are  various  reasons  for  my  be- 
ing anti-rhetorical.  In  the  first  place  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  pages  of  a  bad  writer  can  be 
improved  by  following  general  rules;  if  they  do 
gain  in  one  respect,  they  lose  inevitably  in  an- 
other. 

So  much  for  one  reason;  but  I  have  others. 

Languages  display  a  tendency  to  follow  es- 
tablished forms.  Thus  Spanish  tends  toward 
Castilian.  But  why  should  I,  a  Basque,  who 
never  hears  Castilian  spoken  in  my  daily  life 
in  the  accents  of  Avila  or  of  Toledo,  endeavour 
to  imitate  it?  Why  should  I  cease  to  be  a 
Basque  in  order  to  appear  Castilian,  when  I  am 
not?  Not  that  I  cherish  sectional  pride,  far 
from  it;  but  every  man  should  be  what  he  is, 
and  if  he  can  be  content  with  what  he  is,  let  him  • 
be  held  fortunate. 

For  this  reason,  among  others,  I  reject  Cas- 
tilian turns  and  idioms  when  they  suggest  them- 
—  82  — 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


selves  to  my  mind.  Thus  if  it  occurs  to  me  to 
write  something  that  is  distinctively  Castilian,  I 
cast  about  for  a  phrase  by  means  of  which  I  may 
express  myself  in  what  to  me  is  a  more  natural 
way,  without  suggestion  of  our  traditional  litera- 
ture. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  pure  rhetoricians,  of 
the  national  school,  who  are  castizo — the  Mar- 
iano de  Cavias,  the  Ricardo  Leons — should  hap- 
pen to  write  something  simply,  logically  and 
with  modern  directness,  they  would  cast  about 
immediately  for  a  roundabout  way  of  saying  it, 
which  might  appear  elaborate  and  out  of  date. 

THE  RHYTHM  OF  STYLE 

There  are  persons  who  imagine  that  I  am  ig- 
norant of  the  three  or  four  elementary  rules  of 
good  writing,  which  everybody  knows,  while  oth- 
ers believe  that  I  am  unacquainted  with  syntax. 
Senor  Bonilla  y  San  Martin  has  conducted  a 
search  through  my  books  for  deficiencies,  and 
has  discovered  that  in  one  place  I  write  a  sen- 
tence in  such  and  such  fashion,  and  that  in  an- 
other I  write  something  else  in  another,  while  in 
a  third  I  compound  a  certain  word  falsely. 
—  83  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


With  respect  to  the  general  subject  of  structural 
usage  which  he  raises,  it  would  be  easy  to  cite 
ample  precedent  among  our  classic  authors;  with 
respect  to  the  word  misticidad  occurring  in  one 
of  my  books,  I  have  put  it  into  the  mouth  of  a 
foreigner.  The  faults  brought  to  light  by 
Senor  Bonilla  are  not  very  serious.  But  what 
of  it?  Suppose  they  were? 

An  intelligent  friend  once  said  to  me: 

"I  don't  know  what  is  lacking  in  your  style; 
I  find  it  acrid."  I  feel  that  this  criticism  is  the 
most  apt  that  has  yet  been  made. 

My  difficulty  in  writing  Castilian  does  not 
arise  from  any  deficiency  in  grammar  nor  any 
want  of  syntax.  I  fail  in  measure,  in  rhythm 
of  style,  and  this  shocks  those  who  open  my 
books  for  the  first  time.  They  note  that  there 
is  something  about  them  that  does  not  sound 
right,  which  is  due  to  the  fact  that  there  is  a 
manner  of  respiration  in  them,  a  system  of 
pauses,  which  is  not  traditionally  Castilian. 

I  should  insist  upon  the  point  at  greater  length, 
were  it  not  that  the  subject  of  style  is  cluttered 
up  with  such  a  mass  of  preconceptions,  that  it 
would  be  necessary  to  redefine  our  terminology, 
and  then,  after  all,  perhaps  we  should  not  un- 
-84.- 

Cr* 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


derstand  one  another.  Men  have  an  idea  that 
they  are  thinking  when  they  operate  the  mech- 
anism of  language  which  they  have  at  command. 
When  somebody  makes  the  joints  of  language 
creak,  they  say:  "He  does  not  know  how  to 
manage  it."  Certainly  he  does  know  how  to 
manage  it.  Anybody  can  manage  a  platitude. 
The  truth  is  simply  this:  the  individual  writer 
endeavours  to  make  of  language  a  cloak  to  fit 
his  form,  while,  contrarywise,  the  purists  at- 
tempt to  mould  their  bodies  till  they  fit  the 
cloak. 

RHETORIC  OF  THE  MINOR  KEY 

Persons  to  whom  my  style  is  not  entirely  dis- 
tasteful, sometimes  ask: 

"Why  use  the  short  sentence  when  it  deprives 
the  period  of  eloquence  and  rotundity?" 

"Because  I  do  not  desire  eloquence  or  rotun- 
dity," I  reply.  "Furthermore,  I  avoid  them." 
The  vast  majority  of  Spanish  purists  are  con- 
vinced that  the  only  possible  rhetoric  is  the 
rhetoric  of  the  major  key.  This,  for  example, 
is  the  rhetoric  of  Castelar  and  Costa,  the  rhetoric 
which  Ricardo  Leon  and  Salvador  Rueda  manip- 
—  85  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


ulate  today,  as  it  has  been  inherited  from  the 
Romans.  Its  purpose  is  to  impart  solemnity  to 
everything,  to  that  which  already  has  it  by  right 
of  nature,  and  to  that  which  has  it  not.  This 
rhetoric  of  the  major  key  marches  with  stately, 
academic  tread.  At  great,  historic  moments,  no 
doubt  it  is  very  well,  but  in  the  long  run,  in  in- 
cessant parade,  it  is  one  of  the  most  deadly 
soporifics  in  literature;  it  destroys  variety,  it  is 
fatal  to  subtlety,  to  nice  transitions,  to  detail,  and 
it  throws  the  uniformity  of  the  copybook  over 
everything. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  rhetoric  of  the  minor 
key,  which  seems  poor  at  first  blush,  soon  reveals 
itself  to  be  more  attractive.  It  moves  with  a 
livelier,  more  life-like  rhythm;  it  is  less  bom- 
bastic. This  rhetoric  implies  continence  and 
basic  economy  of  effort;  it  is  like  an  agile  man, 
lightly  clothed  and  free  of  motion. 

To  the  extent  of  my  ability  I  always  avoid  the 
rhetoric  of  the  major  key,  which  is  assumed  as 
the  only  proper  style,  the  very  moment  that  one 
sits  down  to  write  Castilian.  I  should  like,  of 
course,  to  rise  to  the  heights  of  solemnity  now 
and  then,  but  very  seldom. 

"Then  what  you  seek,"  I  am  told,  "is  a  fa- 
—  86  — 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


miliar  style  like  that  of  Mesonero  Romanes, 
Trueba  and  Pereda?" 

No,  I  am  not  attracted  by  that  either. 

The  familiar,  rude,  vulgar  manner  reminds 
me  of  a  worthy  bourgeois  family  at  the  dinner 
table.  There  sits  the  husband  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  while  the  wife's  hair  is  at  loose  ends  and 
she  is  dirty  besides,  and  all  the  children  are  in 
rags. 

I  take  it  that  one  may  be  simple  and  sincere 
without  either  affectation  or  vulgarity.  It  is 
well  to  be  a  little  neutral,  perhaps,  a  little  grey 
for  the  most  part,  so  that  upon  occasion  the  more 
delicate  hues  may  stand  out  clearly,  while  a 
rhythm  may  be  employed  to  advantage  which 
is  in  harmony  with  actual  life,  which  is  light 
and  varied,  and  innocent  of  striving  after  solem- 
nity. 

A  modern  poet,  in  my  opinion,  has  illustrated 
this  rhetoric  of  the  minor  key  to  perfection. 

He  is  Paul  Verlaine. 

A  style  like  Verlaine's,  which  is  non-se- 
quent, macerated,  free,  is  indispensable  to  any 
mastery  of  the  rhetoric  of  the  minor  key.  This, 
to  me,  has  always  been  my  literary  ideal. 

—  87  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


THE  VALUE  OF  MY  IDEAS 

From  time  to  time,  my  friend  Azorin  attempts 
to  analyse  my  ideas.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  in 
the  secret  of  the  scales,  as  such  an  assumption 
upon  my  part  would  be  ridiculous.  As  the 
pilot  takes  advantage  of  a  favourable  wind,  and 
if  it  does  not  blow,  of  one  that  is  unfavourable, 
I  do  the  same.  The  meteorologist  is  able  to  tell 
with  mathematical  accuracy  in  his  laboratory, 
after  a  glance  at  his  instruments,  not  only  the 
direction  of  the  prevailing  wind,  but  the  atmos- 
pheric pressure  and  the  degree  of  humidity  as 
well.  I  am  able  only,  however,  to  say  with  the 
pilot:  "I  sail  this  way,"  and  then  make  head 
as  best  I  may. 

GENIUS  AND  ADMIRATION 

I  have  no  faith  in  the  contention  of  the  Lom- 
brosians  that  genius  is  akin  to  insanity,  neither 
do  I  think  that  genius  is  an  infinite  capacity  for 
taking  pains.  Lombroso,  for  that  matter,  is  as 
old-fashioned  today  as  a  hoop  skirt. 

Genius  partakes  of  the  miraculous.  If  some 
one  should  tell  me  that  a  stick  had  been  trans- 
—  88  — 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


formed  into  a  snake  by  a  miracle,  naturally  I 
should  not  believe  it;  but  if  I  should  be  asked 
whether  there  was  not  something  miraculous  in 
the  very  existence  of  a  stick  or  of  a  snake,  I 
should  be  constrained  to  acknowledge  the 
miracle. 

When  I  read  the  lives  of  the  philosophers  in 
Diogenes  Laertius,  I  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that 
Epicurus,  Zeno,  Diogenes,  Protagoras  and  the 
others  were  nothing  more  than  men  who  had 
common  sense.  Clearly,  as  a  corollary,  I  am 
obliged  to  conclude  that  the  people  we  meet 
nowadays  upon  the  street,  whether  they  wear 
gowns,  uniforms  or  blouses,  are  mere  animals 
masquerading  in  human  shape. 

Contradicting  the  assumption  that  the  great 
men  of  antiquity  were  only  ordinary  normal  be- 
ings, we  must  concede  the  fact  that  most  ex- 
traordinary conditions  must  have  existed  and, 
indeed,  have  been  pre-exquisite,  before  a 
Greece  could  have  arisen  in  antiquity,  or  an 
Athens  in  Greece,  or  a  man  such  as  Plato  in 
Athens. 

By  very  nature,  the  source^s  of  admiration 
are  as  mysterious  to  my  mind  as  the  roots  of 
genius.  Do  we  admire  what  we  understand,  or 
—  89  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


what  we  do  not  understand?  Admiration  is  of 
two  kinds,  of  which  the  more  common  proceeds 
from  wonder  at  something  which  we  do  not 
understand.  There  is,  however,  an  admiration 
which  goes  with  understanding. 

Edgar  Poe  composed  several  stories,  of  which 
The  Goldbug  is  one,  in  which  an  impenetrable 
enigma  is  first  presented,  to  be  solved  afterwards 
as  by  a  talisman;  but,  then,  a  lesson  in  cryptog- 
raphy ensues,  wherein  the  talisman  is  explained 
away,  and  the  miraculous  gives  place  to  the  rea- 
soning faculties  of  a  mind  of  unusual  power. 

He  has  done  something  very  similar  in  his 
poem,  The  Raven,  where  the  poem  is  followed  by 
an  analysis  of  its  gestation,  which  is  called  The 
Philosophy  of  Composition.  Would  it  be  more 
remarkable  to  write  The  Raven  by  inspiration, 
or  to  write  it  through  conscious  skill?  To  find 
the  hidden  treasure  through  the  talisman  of  The 
Goldbug,  or  through  the  possession  of  analytical 
faculties  such  as  those  of  the  protagonist  of  Poe's 
tale? 

Much  consideration  will  lead  to  the  conclusion 
that  one  process  is  as  marvellous  as  the  other. 

It  may  be  said  that  there  is  nothing  miraculous 
—  90  — 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


in  nature,  and  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  all  mir- 
aculous. 


MY  LITERARY  AND  ARTISTIC  INCLINATIONS 

Generally  speaking,  I  neither  understand  old 
books  very  well,  nor  do  I  care  for  them — I  have 
been  able  to  read  only  Shakespeare,  and  per- 
haps one  or  two  others,  with  the  interest  with 
which  I  approach  modern  writers. 

It  has  sometimes  seemed  to  me  that  the  un- 
readableness  of  the  older  authors  might  be  made 
the  foundation  of  a  philosophic  system.  Yet  I 
have  met  with  some  surprises. 

One  was  that  I  enjoyed  the  Odyssey. 

"Am  I  a  hypocrite?"  I  asked  myself. 

I  do  not  find  old  painters  to  be  as  incompatible 
as  old  authors.  On  the  contrary,  my  experience 
has  been  that  they  are  the  reverse.  I  greatly 
prefer  a  canvas  by  Botticelli,  Mantegna,  El 
Greco  or  Velazquez  to  a  modern  picture. 

The  only  famous  painter  of  the  past  for  whom 

I  have   entertained   an   antipathy,   is   Raphael; 

yet,  when  I  was  in  Rome  and  saw  the  frescos  in 

the  Vatican,  I  was  obliged  again  to  ask  myself 

—  91  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


if  my  attitude  was  a  pose,  because  they  struck 
me  frankly  as  admirable. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  taste,  but  I  am  sincere; 
nor  do  I  endeavour  to  be  consistent.  Consist- 
ency does  not  interest  me. 

The  only  consistency  possible  is  a  consistency 
which  comes  from  without,  which  proceeds  from 
fear  of  public  opinion,  and  anything  of  this  sort 
appears  to  me  to  be  contemptible. 

Not  to  change  because  of  what  others  may 
think,  is  one  of  the  most  abject  forms  of  slavery. 

Let  us  change  all  we  can.  My  ideal  is  con- 
tinual change — change  of  life,  change  of  home, 
of  food,  and  even  of  skin. 


MY  LIBRARY 

Among  the  things  that  I  missed  most  as  a  stu- 
dent, was  a  small  library.  If  I  had  had  one,  I 
believe  I  should  have  dipped  more  deeply  into 
books  and  into  life  as  well;  but  it  was  not  given 
me. 

During  the  period  which  is  most  fruitful  for 
the  maturing  of  the  mind,  that  is,  during  the  years 
from  twelve  to  twenty,  I  lived  by  turns  in  six  or 
92 


THE  EXTRARADWS 


seven  cities,  and  as  it  was  impossible  to  travel 
about  with  books,  I  never  retained  any. 

A  lack  of  books  was  the  occasion  of  my  fail- 
ure to  form  the  habit  of  re-reading,  of  tasting 
again  and  again  and  of  relishing  what  I  read, 
and  also  of  making  notes  in  the  margin. 

Nearly  all  authors  who  own  a  small  library,  in 
which  the  books  are  properly  arranged,  and 
nicely  annotated,  become  famous. 

I  am  not  sentimentalizing  about  stolid,  brazen 
note-taking,  such  as  that  with  which  the  gentle- 
men of  the  Ateneo  debase  their  books,  because 
that  merely  indicates  barbarous  lack  of  culture 
and  an  obtuseness  which  is  Kabyline. 

Having  had  no  library  in  my  youth,  I  have 
never  possessed  the  old  favourites  that  every- 
body carries  in  his  pocket  into  the  country,  and 
reads  over  and  over  until  he  knows  them  by 
heart. 

I  have  looked  in  and  out  of  books  as  travel- 
lers do  in  and  out  of  inns,  not  stopping  long  in 
any  of  them.  I  am  very  sorry  but  it  is  too  late 
now  for  the  loss  to  be  repaired. 


—  93  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


ON  BEING  A  GENTLEMAN 

Viewed  from  without,  I  seem  to  impress  some 
as  a  crass,  crabbed  person,  who  has  very  little 
ability,  while  others  regard  me  as  an  unhealthy, 
decadent  writer.  Then  Azorin  has  said  of  me 
that  I  am  a  literary  aristocrat,  a  fine  and  com- 
prehensive mind. 

I  should  accept  Azorin's  opinion  very  gladly, 
but  personality  needs  to  be  hammered  severely 
in  literature  before  it  leaves  its  slag.  Like 
metal  which  is  removed  from  the  furnace  after 
casting  and  placed  under  the  hammer,  I  would 
offer  my  works  to  be  put  to  the  test,  to  be  beaten 
by  all  hammers. 

If  anything  were  left,  I  should  treasure  it  then 
lovingly;  if  nothing  were  left,  we  should  still 
pick  up  some  fragments  of  life. 

I  always  listen  to  the  opinions  of  the  non- 
literary  concerning  my  books  with  the  great- 
est interest.  My  cousin,  Justo  Goni,  used  to 
express  his  opinion  without  circumlocution.  He 
always  carried  off  my  books  as  they  appeared, 
and  then,  a  long  time  after,  would  give  his  opin- 
ion. 

Of  The  Way  of  Perfection  he  said: 
—  94  — 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


"Good,  yes,  very  good;  but  it  is  so  tiresome." 

I  realized  that  there  was  some  truth  in  his 
view. 

When  he  read  the  three  novels  to  which  I  had 
given  the  general  title,  The  Struggle  for  Life, 
he  stopped  me  on  the  Calle  de  Alcala  one  day 
and  said: 

"You  'have  not  convinced  me." 

"How  so?" 

"Your  hero  is  a  man  of  the  people,  but  he  is 
falsified.  He  is  just  like  you  are ;  you  can  never 
be  anything  but  a  gentleman." 

This  gentility  with  which  my  cousin  re- 
proached me,  and  without  doubt  he  was  correct, 
is  common  to  nearly  all  Spanish  writers. 

There  are  no  Spaniards  at  present,  and  there 
never  have  been  any  at  any  other  time,  who 
write  out  of  the  Spanish  soul,  out  of  the  hearts 
of  the  people.  Even  Dicenta  did  not.  His 
Juan  Jose  is  not  a  workingman,  but  a  young  gen- 
tleman. He  has  nothing  of  the  workingman 
about  him  beyond  the  label,  the  clothes,  and 
such  externals. 

Galdos,  for  example,  can  make  the  common 
people  talk;  Azorin  can  portray  the  villages  of 
Castile,  set  on  their  arid  heights,  against  back- 
—  95  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


grounds  of  blue  skies;  Blasco  Ibanez  can  paint 
the  life  of  the  Valencians  in  vivid  colours  with 
a  prodigality  that  carries  with  it  the  taint  of 
the  cheap,  but  none  of  them  has  penetrated  into 
the  popular  soul.  That  would  require  a  great 
poet,  and  we  have  none. 

GIVING  OFFENCE 

I  have  the  name  of  being  aggressive,  but,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  scarcely  ever  attacked 
any  one  personally. 

Many  hold  a  radical  opinion  to  be  an  insult. 

In  an  article  in  La  Lectura,  Ortega  y  Gasset 
illustrates  my  propensity  to  become  offensive  by 
recalling  that  as  we  left  the  Ateneo  together  one 
afternoon,  we  encountered  a  blind  man  on  the 
Calle  del  Prado,  singing  a  jota,  whereupon  I  re- 
marked: "An  unspeakable  song!" 

Admitted.  It  is  a  fact,  but  I  fail  to  see  any 
cause  of  offence.  It  is  only  another  way  of 
saying  more  forcefully:  "I  do  not  like  it,  it 
does  not  please  me,"  or  what  you  will. 

I  have  often  been  surprised  to  find,  after  ex- 
pressing an  opinion,  that  I  have  been  insulted 
bitterly  in  reply. 

—  96  — 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


At  the  outset  of  my  literary  career,  Azorin  and 
I  shared  the  ill  will  of  everybody. 

When  Maeztu,  Azorin,  Carlos  del  Rio  and  my- 
self edited  a  modest  magazine,  by  the  name  of 
Juventud,  Azorin  and  I  were  the  ones  princi- 
pally to  be  insulted.  The  experience  was  re- 
peated later  when  we  were  both  associated  with 
El  Globo. 

Azorin,  perhaps,  was  attacked  and  insulted 
more  frequently,  so  that  I  was  often  in  a  posi- 
tion to  act  as  his  champion. 

Some  years  ago  I  published  an  article  in  the 
Nuevo  Mundo,  in  which  I  considered  Vazquez 
Mella  and  his  refutation  of  the  Kantian  phi- 
losophy, dwelling  especially  upon  his  seventeenth 
mathematical  proof  of  the  existence  of  God. 
The  thing  was  a  burlesque,  but  a  conservative 
paper  took  issue  with  me,  called  me  an  atheist, 
a  plagiarist,  a  drunkard  and  an  ass.  As  for 
being  an  atheist,  I  did  not  take  that  as  an  insult, 
but  as  an  honour. 

Upon  another  occasion,  I  published  an  arti- 
cle about  Spanish  women,  with  particular  ref- 
erence to  Basque  women,  in  which  I  maintained 
that  they  sacrificed  natural  kindliness  and  sym- 
pathy on  the  altars  of  honour  and  religion, 
—  97  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


whereupon  the  Daughters  of  Mary  of  San  Se- 
bastian made  answer,  charging  that  I  was  a  de- 
generate son  of  their  city,  who  had  robbed  them 
of  their  honour,  which  was  absolutely  contrary 
to  the  fact.  In  passing,  they  suggested  to  the 
editor  of  the  Nuevo  Mundo  that  he  should  not 
permit  me  to  write  again  for  the  magazine. 

I  wrote  an  article  once  dealing  with  Maceo  and 
Cuba,  whereupon  a  journalist  from  those  parts 
jumped  up  and  called  me  a  fat  Basque  ox. 

The  Catalans  have  also  obliged  me  with  some 
choice  insults,  which  I  have  found  engaging. 
When  I  lectured  in  Barcelona  in  the  Casa  del 
Pueblo,  La  Veu  de  Catalunya  undertook  to  re- 
port the  affair,  picturing  me  as  talking  plati- 
tudes before  an  audience  of  professional  bomb 
throwers  and  dynamiters,  and  experts  with  the 
Browning  gun. 

Naturally,  I  was  enchanted. 

Recently,  when  writing  for  the  review  Espafia, 
I  had  a  similar  experience,  which  reminded  me 
of  my  connection  with  the  smaller  periodicals  of 
fifteen  years  ago.  Some  gentlemen,  mostly  na- 
tives of  the  provinces,  approached  the  editor, 
Ortega  y  Gasset,  with  the  information  that  I  was 
not  a  fit  person  to  contribute  to  a  serious  maga- 
—  98  — 


THE  EXTRARAD1US 


zine,  as  what  I  wrote  was  not  so,  while  my  name 
would  ruin  the  sale  of  the  weekly. 

These  pious  souls  and  good  Christians  im- 
agined that  I  might  need  that  work  in  order  to 
earn  my  living,  so  in  the  odour  of  sanctity  they 
did  whatever  lay  in  their  power  to  deprive  me 
of  my  means  of  support.  Oh,  noble  souls!  Oh, 
ye  of  great  heart!  I  salute  you  from  a  safe 
distance,  and  wish  you  the  most  uncomfortable 
beds  in  the  most  intolerable  wards  set  apart  for 
scurvy  patients,  in  any  hospital  of  your  choos- 
ing, throughout  the  world. 

THIRST  FOR  GLORY 

Fame,  success,  popularity,  the  illusion  of  be- 
ing known,  admired  and  esteemed,  appeal  in 
different  ways  to  authors.  To  Salvador  Rueda, 
glory  is  a  triumphant  entrance  into  Tegucigalpa, 
where  he  is  taken  to  the  Spanish  Casino,  and 
crowned  with  a  crown  of  real  laurel.  To 
Unamuno,  glory  is  the  assurance  that  people 
will  be  interested  in  him  at  least  a  thousand 
years  after  he  is  dead.  And  to  others  the  only 
glory  worth  talking  about  is  that  courted  by 
the  French  writer,  Rabbe,  who  busied  him- 
—  99  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


self  in  Spain  with  la  gloire  argent  comptant. 
Some  yearn  for  a  large  stage  with  pennons  and 
salvos  and  banners,  while  others  are  content  with 
a  smaller  scene. 

Ortega  y  Gasset  says  that  to  me  glory  re- 
duces itself  to  the  proportions  of  an  agreeable 
dinner,  with  good  talk  across  the  table. 

And  he  is  right.  To  mingle  with  pleasant, 
intelligent,  cordial  persons  is  one  of  the  more 
alluring  sorts  of  fame. 

There  is  something  seductive  and  ingratiat- 
ing about  table  talk  when  it  is  spirited.  A  lux- 
urious dining  room,  seating  eight  or  ten  guests, 
of  whom  three  or  four  are  pretty  women,  one  of 
whom  should  be  a  foreigner;  as  many  men, 
none  of  them  aristocrats — generally  speaking, 
aristocrats  are  disagreeable — nor  shall  we  ad- 
mit artists,  for  they  are  in  the  same  class  as  the 
aristocrats;  one's  neighbour,  perhaps,  is  a  banker, 
or  a  Jew  of  aquiline  feature,  and  then  the  talk 
touches  on  life  and  on  politics,  relieved  with  a 
little  gallantry  toward  the  ladies,  from  time  to 
time  allowing  to  each  his  brief  opportunity  to 
shine — all  this,  beyond  doubt,  is  most  agreeable. 

I  like,  too,  to  spend  an  afternoon  conversing 
with  a  number  of  ladies  in  a  comfortable  draw- 
—  100  — 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


ing  room,  which  is  well  heated.  I  visualize  the 
various  rewards  which  are  meted  out  by  fame 
as  being  housed  invariably  under  a  good  roof. 
What  is  not  intimate,  does  not  appeal  to  me. 

I  have  often  seen  Guimera  in  a  cafe  on  the 
Rambla  in  Barcelona,  drinking  coffee  at  a  table, 
alone  and  forlorn,  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of 
shop  clerks  and  commercial  travellers. 

"Is  that  Guimera?"  I  asked  a  Catalan  jour- 
nalist. 

"Yes." 

And  then  he  told  me  that  they  had  tendered 
him  a  tremendous  testimonial  some  months  prev- 
iously, which  had  been  attended  by  I  don't  know 
how  many  hundreds  of  societies,  all  marching 
with  their  banners. 

I  have  no  very  clear  idea  of  just  what 
Guimera  has  done,  as  it  is  many  years  since  I 
have  gone  to  the  theatre,  but  I  know  that  he  is 
considered  in  Catalonia  to  be  one  of  the  glories 
of  the  country. 

I  should  not  care  for  an  apotheosis,  and  then 
find  myself  left  forlorn  and  alone  to  take  my 
coffee  afterwards  with  a  horde  of  clerks. 

I  may  never  write  anything  that  will  take  the 
world  by  storm — most  probably  not;  but  if  I  do, 
—  101  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


and  it  occurs  to  my  fellow  townsmen  to  organ- 
ize one  of  these  celebrations  with  flags,  banners 
and  choral  societies,  they  need  not  count  upon 
my  attendance.  They  will  not  be  able  to  dis- 
cover me  even  with  the  aid  of  Sherlock  Holmes. 

When  I  am  old,  I  hope  to  take  coffee  with 
pleasant  friends,  whether  it  be  in  a  palace  or 
a  porter's  lodge.  I  neither  expect  nor  desire 
flags,  committees,  nor  waving  banners. 

Laurel  does  not  seduce  me,  and  you  cannot 
do  it  with  bunting. 

ELECTIVE  ANTIPATHIES 

As  I  have  expressed  my  opinions  of  other 
authors  sharply,  making  them  public  with  the 
proper  disgust,  others  have  done  the  same  with 
me,  which  is  but  logical  and  natural,  especially 
in  the  case  of  a  writer  such  as  myself,  who  holds 
that  sympathy  and  antipathy  are  of  the  very 
essence  of  art. 

My  opponents  and  myself  differ  chiefly  in  the 
fact  that  I  am  more  cynical  than  they,  and  so  I 
disclose  my  personal  animus  quite  ingenuously, 
which  my  enemies  fail  to  do. 

I  hold  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  morality; 
—  102  — 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


morality  of  work  and  morality  of  play.  The 
morality  of  work  is  an  immoral  morality,  which 
teaches  us  to  take  advantage  of  circumstances 
and  to  lie.  The  morality  of  play,  for  the  rea- 
son that  it  deals  with  mere  futilities,  is  finer  and 
more  chivalrous. 

I  believe  that  in  literature  and  in  all  liberal 
arts,  the  morality  should  be  the  morality  of 
play,  while  my  opponents  for  the  most  part  hold 
that  the  morality  of  literature  should  be  the 
morality  of  work.  I  have  never,  consciously  at 
least,  been  influenced  in  my  literary  opinions  by 
practical  considerations.  My  ideas  may  have 
been  capricious,  and  they  are, — they  may  even 
be  bad, — but  they  have  no  ulterior  practical  mo- 
tive. 

My  failure  to  be  practical,  together,  perhaps, 
with  an  undue  obtuseness  of  perception,  brings 
me  face  to  face  with  critics  of  two  sorts:  one, 
esthetic;  the  other,  social. 

My  esthetic  critics  say  to  me: 

"You  have  not  perfected  your  style,  you  have 
not  developed  the  technique  of  your  novels. 
You  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  literate." 

I  shrug  my  shoulders  and  reply:  "Are  you 
sure?" 

—  103  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


My  social  critics  reproach  me  for  my  nega- 
tive and  destructive  views.  I  do  not  know  how 
to  create  anything,  I  am  incapable  of  enthus- 
iasm, I  cannot  describe  life,  and  so  on. 

This  feeling  seems  logical  enough,  if  it  is  sin- 
cere, if  it  is  honest,  and  I  accept  it  as  such,  and 
it  does  not  offend  me. 

But,  as  some  of  my  esthetic  critics  tell  me: 
"You  are  not  an  artist,  you  do  not  know  how 
to  write,"  without  feeling  any  deep  conviction 
on  the  subject,  but  rather  fearing  that  perhaps  I 
may  be  an  artist  after  all  and  that  at  last  some- 
body may  come  to  think  so,  so  among  my  critics 
who  pose  as  defenders  of  society,  there  are  those 
who  are  influenced  by  motives  which  are  purely 
utilitarian. 

I  am  reminded  of  servants  shouting  at  a  man 
picking  flowers  over  the  garden  wall,  or  an  ap- 
ple from  the  orchard  as  he  passes,  who  raise  their 
voices  as  high  as  possible  so  as  to  make  their 
officiousness  known. 

They  shout  so  that  their  masters  will  hear. 

"How  dare  that  rascal  pick  flowers  from  the 

garden?     How  dare  he  defy  us  and  our  masters? 

Shall  a  beggar,  who  is  not  respectable,  tell  us 

that  our  laws  are  not  laws,  that  our  honours  are 

—  104  — 


THE  EXTRARADIUS 


not  honours,  and  that  we  are  a  gang  of  accom- 
plished idiots?" 

Yes,  that  is  just  what  I  tell  them,  and  I  shall 
continue  to  do  so  as  long  as  it  is  the  truth. 

Shout,  you  lusty  louts  in  gaudy  liveries,  bark 
you  little  lap-dogs,  guard  the  gates,  you  govern- 
ment inspectors  and  carabineers!  I  shall  look 
into  your  garden,  which  is  also  my  garden,  I 
shall  make  off  with  anything  from  it  that  I  am 
able,  and  I  shall  say  what  I  please. 

To  A  MEMBER  OF  SEVERAL  ACADEMIES 

A  certain  Basque  writer,  one  Senor  de  Loy- 
arte,  who  is  a  member  of  several  academies,  and 
Royal  Commissioner  of  Education,  assails  me 
violently  upon  social  grounds  in  a  book  which 
he  has  published,  although  the  attack  is  veiled 
as  purely  literary. 

Senor  de  Loyarte  is  soporific  as  a  general 
rule,  but  in  his  polite  sortie  against  me,  he  is 
more  amusing  than  is  usual.  His  malice  is  so 
keen  that  it  very  nearly  causes  him  to  appear 
intelligent. 

In  literature,  Senor  de  Loyarte — and  why 
should  Senor  de  Loyarte  not  be  associated  with 
—  105  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


literature — presents  the  figure  of  a  fat,  pale, 
flabby  boy  in  a  priests'  school,  skulking  under  the 
skirts  of  a  Jesuit  Father. 

Sefior  de  Loyarte,  like  those  little,  chubby- 
winged  cherubs  on  sacristy  ceilings,  shakes  his 
arrowlet  at  me  and  lets  fling  a  billet  doux. 

Senor  de  Loyarte  says  I  smack  of  the  cadaver, 
that  I  am  a  plagiarist,  an  atheist,  anti-religious, 
anti-patriotic,  and  more  to  boot. 

I  shall  not  reply  for  it  may  be  true.  Yet  it 
is  also  true  that  Senor  de  Loyarte's  noble  words 
will  please  his  noble  patrons,  from  whom,  per- 
haps, he  may  receive  applause  even  more  sub- 
stantial than  the  pat  on  the  shoulder  of  a  Jesuit 
Father,  or  the  smile  of  every  good  Conserva- 
tive, who  is  a  defender  of  the  social  order.  His 
book  is  an  achievement  which  should  induct 
Sefior  de  Loyarte  into  membership  in  several 
more  academies.  Sefior  de  Loyarte  is  already 
a  Corresponding  Member  of  the  Spanish  Acad- 
emy, or  of  the  Academy  of  History,  I  am  not 
quite  sure  which;  but  they  are  all  the  same. 
Speaking  of  history,  I  should  be  interested  to 
know  who  did  first  introduce  the  sponge. 

Senor  de  Loyarte  is  destined  to  be  a  member, 
a  member  of  academies  all  his  life. 
—  106  — 


IV 
ADMIRATIONS  AND  INCOMPATIBILITIES 

Diogenes  Laertius  tells  us  that  when  Zeno  con- 
sulted the  oracle  as  to  what  he  should  do  in 
order  to  attain  happiness  in  life,  the  deity  re- 
plied that  he  should  assimilate  himself  with  the 
dead.  Having  understood,  he  applied  himself 
exclusively  to  the  study  of  books. 

Thus  speaks  Laertius,  in  the  translation  of 
Don  Jose  Ortiz  y  Sanz.  I  confess  that  I  should 
not  have  understood  the  oracle.  However,  with- 
out consulting  any  oracle,  I  have  devoted  my- 
self for  some  time  to  reading  books,  whether  an- 
cient and  modern,  both  out  of  curiosity  and  in 
order  to  learn  something  of  life. 

CERVANTES,  SHAKESPEARE,  MOLIERE 

For  a  long  time,  I  thought  that  Shakespeare 

was  a  writer  who  was  unique  and  different  from 

all  others.     It  seemed  to  me  that  the  difference 

between  him  and  other  writers  was  one  of  qual- 

—  107  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


ity  rather  than  of  quantity.  I  felt  that,  as  a 
man,  Shakespeare  was  of  a  different  kind  of 
humanity;  but  I  do  not  think  so  now.  Shakes- 
peare is  no  more  the  quintessence  of  the  world's 
literature  than  Plato  and  Kant  are  the  quint- 
essence of  universal  philosophy.  I  once  ad- 
mired the  philosophy  and  characters  of  the  au- 
thor of  Hamlet;  when  I  read  him  today,  what 
most  impresses  me  is  his  rhetoric,  and,  above 
all,  his  high  spirit. 

Cervantes  is  not  very  sympathetic  to  me.  He 
is  tainted  with  the  perfidy  of  the  man  who  has 
made  a  pact  with  the  enemy  (with  the  Church, 
the  aristocracy,  with  those  in  power),  and  then 
conceals  the  fact.  Philosophically,  in  spite  of 
his  enthusiasm  for  the  Renaissance,  he  appears 
vulgar  and  pedestrian  to  me,  although  he  towers 
above  all  his  contemporaries  on  account  of  the 
success  of  a  single  invention,  that  of  Don  Quix- 
ote and  Sancho,  which  is  to  literature  what  the 
discovery  of  Newton  was  to  Physics. 

As  for  Moliere,  he  is  a  poor  fellow,  who  never 
attains  the  exuberance  of  Shakespeare,  nor  the 
invention  that  immortalizes  Cervantes.  But  his 
taste  is  better  than  Shakespeare's  and  he  is  more 
social,  more  modern  than  Cervantes.  The  half- 
—  108  — 


ADMIRATIONS  AND  INCOMPATIBILITIES 

century  of  more  that  separates  the  work  of  Cer- 
vantes from  that  of  Moliere,  is  not  sufficient  to 
explain  this  modernity.  Between  the  Spain  of 
Quixote  and  the  France  of  Le  Bourgeois  Gentil- 
homme,  lies  something  deeper  than  time.  Des- 
cartes and  Gassendi  had  lived  in  France,  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  seed  of  Saint  Ignatius  Lo- 
yola lay  germinating  in  the  Spain  of  Cervantes. 

THE  ENCYCLOPEDISTS 

A  French  journalist  who  visited  my  house  dur- 
ing the  summer,  remarked : 

"The  ideas  were  great  in  the  French  Revolu- 
tion; it  was  not  the  men."  I  replied:  "I  be- 
lieve that  the  men  of  the  French  Revolution  were 
great,  but  not  the  ideas." 

Of  all  the  philosophical  literature  of  the  pre- 
revolutionary  period,  what  remains  today? 
What  books  exert  influence?  In  France,  ex- 
cerpts from  Montesquieu,  Diderot  and  Rousseau 
are  still  read  in  the  schools,  but  outside  of 
France,  they  are  read  nowhere. 

Only  an  extraordinary  person  would  go  away 
for  the  summer  with  Montesquieu's  Espr.it  des 
Lois,  or  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau's  Emile  in  his 
—  109  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


grip.  Montesquieu  is  demonstration  of  the  fact 
that  a  book  cannot  live  entirely  by  virtue  of  cor- 
rectness of  style. 

Of  all  the  writers  who  enjoyed  such  fame  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  the  only  one  who  will 
bear  reading  today  is  Voltaire — the  Voltaire  of 
the  Dictionnaire  Philosophique  and  of  the 
novels. 

Diderot,  whom  the  French  consider  a  great 
man,  is  of  no  interest  whatsoever  to  the  modern 
mind,  at  least  to  the  mind  which  is  not  French. 
He  is  almost  as  dull  as  Rousseau.  La  Re- 
ligieuse  is  an  utterly  false  little  book.  Some 
years  ago  I  loaned  a  copy  to  a  young  lady  who 
had  just  come  from  a  convent.  "I  have  never 
seen  anything  like  this,"  she  said  to  me.  "It  is 
a  fantasy  with  no  relation  to  the  truth."  That 
was  my  idea.  Jacques,  le  fataliste  is  tiresome; 
Le  Neveu  de  Rameau  gives  at  first  the  impres- 
sion that  it  is  going  to  amount  to  something,  to 
something  powerful  such  as  the  Satiricon  of 
Petronius,  or  El  Buscon  of  Quevedo;  but  at  the 
end,  it  is  nothing. 

The  only  writer  of  the  pre-revolutionary  pe- 
riod who  can  be  read  today  with  any  pleasure — 
and  this,  perhaps,  is  because  he  does  not  at- 
—  110  — 


ADMIRATIONS  AND  INCOMPATIBILITIES 

tempt  anything — is  Chamfort.  His  characters 
and  anecdotes  are  sufficiently  highly  flavoured  to 
defy  the  action  of  time. 


THE  ROMANTICISTS 
Goethe 

If  a  militia  of  genius  should  be  formed  on 
Parnassus,  Goethe  would  be  the  drum-major. 
He  is  so  great,  so  majestic,  so  serene,  so  full  of 
talent,  so  abounding  in  virtue,  and  yet,  so  anti- 
pathetic! 

Chateaubriand 

A  skin  of  Lacrymae  Christi  that  has  turned 
sour.  At  times  the  good  Viscount  drops  mo- 
lasses into  the  skin  to  take  away  the  taste  of 
vinegar;  at  other  times,  he  drops  in  more  vine- 
gar to  take  away  the  sweet  taste  of  the  molasses. 
He  is  both  moth-eaten  and  sublime. 

Victor  Hugo 

Victor  Hugo,  the  most  talented  of  rhetoricians! 
Victor  Hugo,  the  most  exquisite  of  vulgarians! 
—  Ill  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


Victor  Hugo — mere  common  sense  dressed  up  as 
art. 

Stendhal 

The  inventor  of  a  psychological  automaton 
moved  by  clock  work. 

Balzac 

A  nightmare,  a  dream  produced  by  indiges- 
tion, a  chill,  rare  acuteness,  equal  obtuseness,  a 
delirium  of  splendours,  cheap  hardware,  of  pre- 
tence and  bad  taste.  Because  of  his  ugliness, 
because  of  his  genius,  because  of  his  immorality, 
the  Danton  of  printers'  ink. 

Poe 

A  mysterious  sphinx  who  makes  one  tremble 
with  lynx-like  eyes,  the  goldsmith  of  magical 
wonders. 

Dickens 

At  once  a  mystic  and  a  sad  clown.  The  Saint 
Vincent  de  Paul  of  the  loosened  string,  the  Saint 
Francis  of  Assisi  of  the  London  Streets.  Every- 
thing is  gesticulation,  and  the  gesticulations  are 
ambiguous.  When  we  think  he  is  going  to  weep, 
—  112  — 


ADMIRATIONS  AND  INCOMPATIBILITIES 

he  laughs;  when  we  think  he  is  going  to  laugh, 
he  cries.  A  remarkable  genius  who  does  every- 
thing he  can  to  make  himself  appear  puny,  yet 
who  is,  beyond  doubt,  very  great. 

Larra  l 

A  small,  trained  tiger  shut  up  in  a  tiny  cage. 
He  has  all  the  tricks  of  a  cat;  he  mews  like 
one,  he  lets  you  stroke  his  back,  and  there  are 
times  when  his  fiercer  instincts  show  in  his  eyes. 
Then  you  realize  that  he  is  thinking:  "How  I 
should  love  to  eat  you  up!" 

THE  NATURALISTS 
Flaubert 

Flaubert  is  a  heavy-footed  animal.  It  is  plain 
that  he  is  a  Norman.  All  his  work  has  great 
specific  gravity.  He  disgusts  me.  One  of 
Flaubert's  master  strokes  was  the  conception  of 
the  character  of  Homais,  the  apothecary,  in 
Madame  Bovary.  I  cannot  see,  however,  that 

*A  Spanish  poet  and  satirist  (1809—37),  famous  under 
the  pseudonym  of  Figaro.  He  committed  suicide.  The  poet 
Zorrilla  first  came  into  prominence  through  some  verses  read 
at  his  tomb. 

—  113  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


Homais  is  any  more  stupid  than  Flaubert  him- 
self, and  he  may  even  be  less  so. 

The  Giants 

The  good  Zola,  vigorous,  dull  and  perspiring, 
dubbed  his  contemporaries,  the  French  natural- 
istic novelists,  "Giants."  What  an  imagination 
was  possessed  by  Zola! 

These  "Giants"  were  none  other  than  the  Gon- 
courts,  whose  insignificance  approached  at  times 
imbecility,  and  in  addition,  Alphonse  Daudet, 
with  the  air  of  a  cheap  comedian  and  an  armful 
of  mediocre  books — a  truly  French  diet,  feeble, 
but  well  seasoned.  These  poor  Giants,  of  whom 
Zola  would  talk,  have  become  so  weak  and 
shrunken  with  time,  that  nobody  is  able  any 
longer  to  make  them  out,  even  as  dwarfs. 

THE  SPANISH  REALISTS 

The  Spanish  realists  of  the  same  period  are 
the  height  of  the  disagreeable.  The  most  re- 
pugnant of  them  all  is  Pereda.  When  I  read 
him,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  riding  on  a  balky,  vicious 
mule,  which  proceeds  at  an  uncomfortable  little 
—  114  — 


ADMIRATIONS  AND  INCOMPATIBILITIES 

trot,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  cuts  stilted  capers 
like  a  circus  horse. 


THE  RUSSIANS 
Dostoievski 

One  hundred  years  'hence  Dostoievski's  ap- 
pearance in  literature  will  be  hailed  as  one  of 
the  most  extraordinary  events  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Among  the  spiritual  fauna  of  Europe, 
his  place  will  be  that  of  the  Diplodocus. 

Tolstoi 

A  number  of  years  ago  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  the  Ateneo,  and  I  used  to  argue  there 
with  the  habitues,  who  in  general  have  succeeded 
in  damming  up  the  channels  through  which  other 
men  receive  ideas. 

"To  my  mind,  Tolstoi  is  a  Greek,"  I  observed. 
"He  is  serene,  clear,  his  characters  are  god-like ; 
all  they  think  of  are  their  love  affairs,  their  pas- 
sions. They  are  never  called  upon  to  face  the 
acute  problem  of  subsistence,  which  is  funda- 
mental with  us." 

—  115  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


"Utter  nonsense!  There  is  nothing  Greek 
about  Tolstoi,"  declared  everybody. 

Some  years  later  at  a  celebration  in  honour  of 
Tolstoi,  Anatole  France  chanced  to  remark: 
"Tolstoi  is  a  Greek." 

When  this  fell  from  Anatole  France,  the 
obstruction  in  the  channels  through  which  these 
gentlemen  of  the  Ateneo  received  their  ideas 
ceased  for  the  moment  to  exist,  and  they  began 
to  believe  that,  after  all,  Tolstoi  might  very  well 
have  something  of  the  Greek  in  him. 

THE  CRITICS 

Sainte  Beuve 

Sainte  Beuve  writes  as  if  he  had  always  said 
the  last  word,  as  if  he  were  precisely  at  the 
needle  of  the  scales.  Yet  I  feel  that  this  writer 
is  not  as  infallible  as  he  thinks.  His  interest 
lies  in  his  anecdote,  in  his  malevolent  insinua- 
tion, in  his  bawdry.  Beyond  these,  he  has  the 
same  Mediterranean  features  as  the  rest  of  us. 

Taine 

Hippolyte  Taine  is  also  one  of  those  persons 
who   think   they   understand   everything.     And 
—  116  — 


ADMIRATIONS  AND  INCOMPATIBILITIES 

there  are  times  when  he  understands  nothing. 
His  History  of  English  Literature,  which  makes 
an  effort  to  be  broad  and  generous,  is  one  of  the 
pettiest,  most  niggardly  histories  ever  written 
anywhere.  His  articles  on  Shakespeare,  Walter 
Scott  and  Dickens  have  been  fabricated  by  a 
French  professor,  which  is  to  say  that  they  are 
among  the  most  wooden  productions  of  the  uni- 
versities of  Europe. 


Ruski 


in 


He  impresses  me  as  the  Prince  of  Upstarts, 
grandiloquent  and  at  the  same  time  unctuous,  a 
General  in  a  Salvation  Army  of  Art,  or  a  monk 
who  is  a  devotee  of  an  esthetic  Doctrine  which 
has  been  drawn  up  by  a  Congress  of  Tourists. 

Croce 

The  esthetic  theory  of  Benedetto  Croce  has 
proved  another  delusion  to  me.  Rather  than  an 
esthetic  theory,  it  is  a  study  of  esthetic  theories. 
As  in  most  Latin  productions,  the  fundamental 
question  is  not  discussed  therein,  but  the  method 
of  approaching  that  question. 
—  117  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


Clarin  l 

I  have  a  poor  opinion  of  Clarin,  although  some 
of  my  friends  regard  him  with  admiration.  As 
a  man,  he  must  have  been  envious ;  as  a  novelist, 
he  is  dull  and  unhappy;  as  a  critic,  I  am  not  cer- 
tain that  he  was  ever  in  the  right. 

1  Pseudonym  of  Leopoldo  Alas,  a  Spanish  critic  and  novel- 
ist of  the  transition,  born  in  Asturias,  whose  influence  was 
widely  felt  in  Spanish  letters.  He  died  in  1905. 


—  118  — 


THE  PHILOSOPHERS 

A  thirst  for  some  knowledge  of  philosophy 
resulted  in  consulting  Dr.  Letamendi's  book 
on  pathology  during  my  student  days.  I  also 
purchased  the  works  of  Kant,  Fichte,  and  Scho- 
penhauer in  the  cheap  editions  which  were  pub- 
lished by  Zozaya.  The  first  of  these  that  I  read 
was  Fichte's  Science  of  Knowledge,  of  which  I 
understood  nothing.  It  stirred  in  me  a  veritable 
indignation  against  both  author  and  translator. 
Was  philosophy  nothing  but  mystification,  as  it  is 
assumed  to  be  by  artists  and  shop  clerks? 

Reading  Parerga  and  Paralipomena  recon- 
ciled me  to  philosophy.  After  that  I  bought  in 
French  The  Critique  of  Pure  Reason,  The  World 
as  Will  and  Idea,  and  a  number  of  other  books. 

How  was  it  that  I,  who  am  gifted  with  but  little 
tenacity  of  purpose,  mustered  up  perseverance 
enough  to  read  difficult  books  for  which  I  was 
without  preparation?  I  do  not  know,  but  the 
fact  is  that  I  read  them. 

—  119  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


Years  after  this  initiation  into  philosophy,  I 
began  reading  the  works  of  Nietzsche,  which  im- 
pressed me  greatly. 

Since  then  I  have  picked  at  this  and  that  in 
order  to  renew  my  philosophic  store,  but  with- 
out success.  Some  books  and  authors  will  not 
agree  with  me,  and  I  have  not  dared  to  venture 
others.  I  have  had  a  volume  of  Hegel's  Logic 
on  my  table  for  a  long  time.  I  have  looked 
at  it,  I  have  smelled  of  it,  but  courage  fails  me. 

Yet  I  am  attracted  to  metaphysics  more  than 
to  any  other  phase  of  philosophy.  Political 
philosophy,  sociology  and  the  common  sense 
schools  please  me  least.  Hobbes,  Locke,  Ben- 
tham,  Comte  and  Spencer  I  have  never  liked  at 
all.  Even  their  Utopias,  which  ought  to  be 
amusing,  bore  me  profoundly,  and  this  has  been 
true  from  Plato's  Republic  to  Kropotkin's  Con- 
quest of  Bread  and  Wells's  A  Modern  Utopia. 
Nor  could  I  ever  become  interested  in  the  pseudo- 
philosophy  of  anarchism.  One  of  the  books 
which  have  disappointed  me  the  most  is  Max 
Stirner's  Ego  and  His  Own. 

Psychology  is  a  science  which  I  should  like 
to  know.  I  have  therefore  skimmed  through 
the  standard  works  of  Wundt  and  Ziehen.  After 
—  120  — 


THE  PHILOSOPHERS 


reading  them,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
psychology  which  I  am  seeking,  day  by  day  and 
every  day,  is  not  to  be  found  in  these  treatises. 
It  is  contained  rather  in  the  writings  of  Nietzsche 
and  the  novels  of  Dostoievski.  In  the  course  of 
time,  I  may  succeed,  perhaps,  in  entering  the 
more  abstract  domains  of  the  science. 


—  121  — 


VI 
THE  HISTORIANS 

Miss  Blimber,  the  school  teacher  in  Dickens' s 
Dombey  and  Son,  could  have  died  happily  had 
she  known  Cicero.  Even  if  such  a  thing  were 
possible  I  should  have  no  great  desire  to  know 
Cicero,  but  I  should  be  glad  to  listen  to  a  lecture 
by  Zeno  in  the  portico  of  the  Poecile  at  Athens, 
or  to  Epicurus's  meditations  in  his  garden. 

My  ignorance  of  history  has  prevented  me 
from  becoming  deeply  interested  in  Greece,  al- 
though now  this  begins  to  embarrass  me,  as  a 
curiosity  about  and  sympathy  for  classical  art 
stirs  within  me.  If  I  were  a  young  man  and 
had  the  leisure,  I  might  even  begin  the  study 
of  Greek. 

As  it  is,  I  feel  that  there  are  two  Greeces: 
one  of  statues  and  temples,  which  is  academic 
and  somewhat  cold;  the  other  of  philosophers 
and  tragedians,  who  convey  to  my  mind  more  of 
an  impression  of  life  and  humanity. 

Apart  from  the  Greek,  which  I  know  but 
—  122  — 


THE  HISTORIANS 


fragmentarily,  I  have  no  great  admiration  for 
ancient  literatures.     The  Old  Testament  never 
aroused  any  devotion  in  me.     Except  for  Ecclesi- 
astes  and  one  or  two  of  the  shorter  books,  it  im- 
presses me  as  repulsively  cruel  and  antipathetic. 
Among  the  Greeks,  I  have  enjoyed  Homer's 
Odyssey  and  the  comedies  of  Aristophanes.     I 
have  read  also  Herodotus,  Plutarch  and  Diogenes 
Laertius.     I  am  not  an  admirer  of  academic, 
well  written  books,  so  I  prefer  Diogenes  Laertius 
to  Plutarch.     Plutarch  impresses  me  as  having 
composed  and  arranged  his  narratives;  not  so 
Diogenes  Laertius.     Plutarch  forces  the  moral- 
ity of  his  personages  to  the  fore;  Diogenes  gives 
details  of  both  the  good  and  the  bad   in  his. 
Plutarch  is  solid  and  systematic;   Diogenes  is 
lighter  and   lacks   system.     I   prefer   Diogenes 
Laertius  to  Plutarch,  and  if  I  were  especially  in- 
terested  in   any   of  the   illustrious   ancients   of 
whom  they  write,  I  should  vastly  prefer  the  let- 
ters of  the  men  themselves,  if  any  existed,  or 
otherwise    the   gossip    of    their   tentmakers    or 
washerwomen,  to  any  lives  written  of  them  by 
either  Diogenes  Laertius  or  Plutarch. 


—  123  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


THE  ROMAN  HISTORIANS 

When  I  turned  to  the  composition  of  historical 
novels,  I  desired  to  ascertain  if  the  historical 
method  had  been  reduced  to  a  system.  I  read 
Lucian's  Instructions  for  Writing  History,  an 
essay  with  the  same  title,  or  with  a  very  similar 
one,  by  the  Abbe  Mably,  some  essays  by  Sim- 
mel,  besides  a  book  by  a  German  professor, 
Ernst  Bernheim,  Lehrbuch  der  historischen 
Methods. 

I  next  read  and  re-read  the  Roman  historians 
Julius  Caesar,  Tacitus,  Sallust  and  Suetonius. 

Sallust 

All  these  Roman  historians  no  doubt  were 
worthy  gentlemen,  but  they  create  an  atmosphere 
of  suspicion.  When  reading  them,  you  suspect 
that  they  are  not  always  telling  the  whole  truth. 
I  read  Sallust  and  feel  that  he  is  lying;  he  has 
composed  his  narrative  like  a  novel. 

In  the  Memorial  de  Sainte  Helene,  it  is  re- 
corded that  on  March  26,  1816,  Napoleon  read 
the  conspiracy  of  Catiline  in  the  Roman  History. 
The  Emperor  observed  that  he  was  unable  to 
—  124  — 


THE  HISTORIANS 


understand  what  Catiline  was  driving  at.  No 
matter  how  much  of  a  bandit  he  may  have  been, 
he  must  have  had  some  object,  some  social  pur- 
pose in  view. 

The  observation  of  this  political  genius  is  one 
which  must  occur  to  all  who  read  Sallust's  book. 
How  could  Catiline  have  secured  the  support  of 
the  most  brilliant  men  of  Rome,  among  them  of 
Julius  Caesar,  if  his  only  plan  and  object  had 
been  to  loot  and  burn  Rome?  It  is  not  logical. 
Evidently  Sallust  lies,  as  governmental  writers 
in  Spain  lie  today  when  they  speak  of  Lerroux 
or  Ferrer,  or  as  the  republican  supporters  of 
Thiers  lied  in  1871,  characterizing  the  Paris 
Commune. 

Tacitus 

Tacitus  is  another  great  Roman  historian  who 
is  theatrical,  melodramatic,  solemn,  full  of 
grand  gestures.  He  also  creates  an  atmosphere 
of  suspicion,  of  falsehood.  Tacitus  has  some- 
thing of  the  inquisitor  in  him,  of  the  fanatic  in 
the  cause  of  virtue.  He  is  a  man  of  austere 
moral  attitude,  which  is  a  pose  that  a  thorough- 
going scamp  finds  it  easy  to  assume. 
—  125  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


A  temperament  such  as  that  of  Tacitus  is  fatal 
to  theatrical  peoples  like  the  Italians,  Spaniards, 
and  French  of  the  South.  From  it  springs  that 
type  of  Sicilian,  Calabrian,  and  Andalusian 
politician  who  is  a  great  lawyer  and  an  eloquent 
orator,  who  declaims  publicly  in  the  forum, 
and  then  reaches  an  understanding  privately 
with  bandits  and  thugs. 

Suetonius 

Suetonius,  although  deficient  both  in  the  pomp 
and  sententiousness  of  Tacitus,  makes  no  attempt 
to  compose  his  story,  nor  to  impart  moral  in- 
struction, but  tells  us  what  he  knows,  simply. 
His  Lives  of  the  Twelve  Ccesars  is  the  greatest 
collection  of  horrors  in  history.  You  leave  it 
with  the  imagination  perturbed,  scrutinizing 
yourself  to  discover  whether  you  may  not  be 
yourself  a  hog  or  a  wild  beast.  Suetonius  gives 
us  an  account  of  men  rather  than  a  history  of 
the  politics  of  emperors,  and  surely  this  method 
is  more  interesting  and  veracious.  I  place  more 
faith  in  the  anecdotes  which  grow  up  about  an 
historical  figure  than  I  do  in  his  laws. 

Polybius  is  a  mixture  of  scepticism  and  com- 
—  126  — 


THE  HISTORIANS 


mon  sense.     He  is  what  Bayle,  Montesquieu  and 
Voltaire  will  come  to  be  centuries  hence. 

As  far  as  Caesar's  Commentaries  are  con- 
cerned, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  have  been 
manipulated  very  skilfully,  they  are  one  of  the 
most  satisfying  and  instructive  books  that  can  be 
read. 

MODERN  AND  CONTEMPORARY  HISTORIANS 

I  have  very  little  knowledge  of  the  historians 
of  the  Renaissance  or  of  those  prior  to  the  French 
Revolution.  Apart  from  the  chroniclers  of  indi- 
vidual exploits,  such  as  Lopez  de  Ayala,  Bran- 
tome,  and  the  others,  they  are  wholly  colourless, 
and  either  pseudo-Roman  or  pseudo-Greek. 
Even  Machiavelli  has  a  personal,  Italian  side, 
which  is  mocking  and  incisive — and  this  is  all 
that  is  worth  while  in  him — and  he  has  a  pre- 
tentious pseudo-Roman  side,  which  is  unspeak- 
ably tiresome. 

Generally  considered,  the  more  carefully  com- 
posed and  smoothly  varnished  the  history,  the 
duller  it  will  be  found;  while  the  more  personal 
revelations  it  contains,  the  more  engaging. 
Most  readers  today,  for  example,  prefer  Bernal 
Diaz  del  Castillo's  True  History  of  the  Conquest 
—  127  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


of  New  Spain  to  Solis's  History  of  the  Conquest 
of  Mexico.  One  is  the  book  of  a  soldier,  who 
had  a  share  in  the  deeds  described,  and  who  re- 
veals himself  for  what  he  is,  with  all  his  preju- 
dices, vanities  and  arrogance;  the  other  is  a 
scholar's  attempt  to  imitate  a  classic  history  and 
to  maintain  a  monotonous  music  throughout  his 
paragraphs. 

Practically  all  the  historians  who  have  fol- 
lowed the  French  Revolution  have  individual 
character,  and  some  have  too  much  of  it,  as  has 
Carlyle.  They  distort  their  subject  until  it  be- 
comes a  pure  matter  of  fantasy,  or  mere  litera- 
ture, or  sinks  even  to  the  level  of  a  family  dis- 
cussion. 

Macaulay's  moral  pedantry,  Thiers's  cold  and 
repulsive  cretinism,  the  melodramatic,  gesticula- 
tory  effusiveness  of  Michelet  are  all  typical 
styles. 

Historical  bazaars  a  la  Cesare  Cantu  may  be 
put  on  one  side,  as  belonging  to  an  inferior 
genre.  They  remind  me  of  those  great  nine- 
teenth century  world's  fairs,  vast,  miscellaneous 
and  exhausting. 

As  for  the  German  historians,  they  are  not 
translated,  so  I  do  not  know  them.  I  have  read 
—  128  — 


THE  HISTORIANS 


only  a  few  essays  of  Simmel,  which  I  think  ex- 
tremely keen,  and  Stewart  Chamberlain's  book 
upon  the  foundations  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
which,  if  the  word  France  were  to  be  substituted 
for  the  word  Germany,  might  easily  have  been 
the  production  of  an  advanced  nationalist  of  the 
Action  Frangaise. 


129 


VII 

MY  FAMILY 
FAMILY  MYTHOLOGY 

The  celebrated  Vicomte  de  Chateaubriand, 
after  flaunting  an  ancestry  of  princes  and  kings 
in  his  Memoires  d'outre-tombe,  then  turns  about 
and  tells  us  that  he  attaches  no  importance  to 
such  matters. 

I  shall  do  the  same.  I  intend  to  furbish  up 
our  family  history  and  mythology,  and  then  I 
shall  assert  that  I  attach  no  importance  to  them. 
And,  what  is  more,  I  shall  be  telling  the  truth. 

My  researches  into  the  life  of  Aviraneta  * 
have  drawn  me  of  late  to  the  genealogical  field, 
and  I  have  looked  into  my  family,  which  is 
equivalent  to  compounding  with  tradition  and 
even  with  reaction. 

I  have   unearthed   three  family   myths:   the 

1 A  kinsman  of  Baroja  and  protagonist  of  his  series  of 
historical  novels  under  the  general  title  of  Memoirs  of  a 
Man  of  Action. 

—  130  — 


MY  FAMILY 


Goni  myth,  the  Zornoza  myth,  and  the  Alzate 
myth. 

The  Goni  myth,  vouched  for  by  an  aunt  of 
mine  who  died  in  San  Sebastian  at  an  age  of 
ninety  or  more,  established,  according  to  her, 
that  she  was  a  descendant  of  Don  Teodosio  de 
Goni,  a  Navarrese  caballero  who  lived  in  the 
time  of  Witiza,  and  who,  after  killing  his  father 
and  mother  at  the  instigation  of  the  devil,  be- 
took himself  to  Mount  Aralar  wearing  an  iron 
ring  about  his  neck,  and  dragging  a  chain  behind 
him,  thus  pilloried  to  do  penance.  One  day,  a 
terrible  dragon  appeared  before  him  during  a 
storm. 

Don  Teodosio  lifted  up  his  soul  unto  God, 
and  thereupon  the  Archangel  Saint  Michael  re- 
vealed himself  to  him,  in  his  dire  extremity,  and 
broke  his  chains,  in  commemoration  of  which 
event  Don  Teodosio  caused  to  be  erected  the 
chapel  of  San  Miguel  in  Excelsis  on  Mount 
Aralar. 

There  were  those  who  endeavoured  to  convince 
my  aunt  that  in  the  time  of  this  supposititious 
Don  Teodosio,  which  was  the  early  part  of  the 
eighth  century,  surnames  had  not  come  into  use 
in  the  Basque  country,  and  even,  indeed,  that 
—  131  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


there  were  at  that  time  no  Christians  there — in 
short  they  maintained  that  Don  Teodosio  was  a 
solar  myth;  but  they  were  not  able  to  convince  my 
aunt.  She  had  seen  the  chapel  of  San  Miguel 
on  Aralar,  and  the  cave  in  which  the  dragon 
lived,  and  a  document  wherein  Charles  V. 
granted  to  Juan  de  Goni  the  privilege  of  renam- 
ing his  house  the  Palace  of  San  Miguel,  as  well  as 
of  adding  a  dragon  to  his  coat  of  arms,  besides  a 
cross  in  a  red  field,  and  a  broken  chain. 

The  Zornoza  myth  was  handed  down  through 
my  paternal  grandmother  of  that  name. 

I  remember  having  heard  this  lady  say  when 
I  was  a  child,  that  her  family  might  be  traced 
in  a  direct  line  to  the  chancellor  Pero  Lopez  de 
Ayala,  and,  I  know  not  through  what  lateral 
branches,  also  to  St.  Francis  Xavier. 

My  grandmother  vouched  for  the  fact  that  her 
father  had  sold  the  documents  and  parchments 
in  which  these  details  were  set  forth,  to  a  titled 
personage  from  Madrid. 

The  Zornozas  boast  an  escutcheon  which  is 
embellished  with  a  band,  a  number  of  wolves, 
and  a  legend  whose  import  I  do  not  recall. 

Indeed,  wolves  occur  in  all  the  escutcheons  of 
the  Baroja,  Alzate  and  Zornoza  families,  in  so 
—  132  — 


MY  FAMILY 


far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover,  and  I  take 
them  to  be  more  or  less  authentic.  We  have 
wolves  passant,  wolves  rampant,  and  wolves  mor- 
dant. The  Goni  escutcheon  also  displays  hearts. 
If  I  become  rich,  which  I  do  not  anticipate,  I  shall 
have  wolves  and  hearts  blazoned  on  the  doors  of 
my  dazzling  automobile,  which  will  not  prevent 
me  from  enjoying  myself  hugely  inside  of  it. 

Turning  to  the  Alzate  myth,  it  too  runs  back 
to  antiquity  and  the  primitive  struggles  of  rival 
families  of  Navarre  and  Labourt.  The  Alzates 
have  been  lords  of  Vera  ever  since  the  fourteenth 
century. 

The  legend  of  the  Alzates  of  Vera  de  Navarra 
relates  that  one  Don  Rodrigo,  master  of  the  vil- 
lage in  the  fifteenth  century,  fell  in  love  with  a 
daughter  of  the  house  of  Urtubi,  in  France,  near 
Urruna,  and  married  her.  Don  Rodrigo  went 
to  live  in  Urtubi  and  became  so  thoroughly  gal- 
licized  that  he  never  cared  to  return  to  Spain, 
so  the  people  of  Vera  banded  together,  dispos- 
sessed him  of  his  honours  and  dignity,  and  se- 
questrated his  lands. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  my 
great-grandfather,  Sebastian  Ignacio  de  Alzate, 
was  among  those  who  assembled  at  Zubieta  in 
—  133  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


1813  to  take  part  in  the  rebuilding  of  San  Sebas- 
tian, and  this  great-grandfather  was  uncle  to  Don 
Eugenio  de  Aviraneta,  a  good  relative  of  mine, 
protagonist  of  my  latest  books. 

St.  Francis  Xavier,  Don  Teodosio  de  Goni, 
Pero  Lopez  de  Ayala,  Aviraneta — a  saint,  a 
revered  worthy,  an  historian,  a  conspirator — 
these  are  our  family  gods. 

Now  let  me  take  my  stand  with  Chateaubriand 
as  attaching  no  importance  to  such  things. 

OUR  HISTORY 

Baroja  is  a  hamlet  in  the  province  of  Alava  in 
the  district  of  Penacerrada.  According  to  Fer- 
nandez Guerra,  it  is  an  Iberian  name  derived 
from  Asiatic  Iberia.  I  believe  that  I  have  read 
in  Campion  that  the  word  Baroja  is  compounded 
from  the  Celtic  bar,  meaning  mountain,  and  the 
Basque  otza,  ocha  meaning  cold.  In  short,  a 
cold  mountain. 

The  district  of  Penacerrada,  which  includes 
Baroja,  is  an  austere  land,  covered  with  intri- 
cate mountain  ranges  which  are  clad  with  trees 
and  scrub  live  oaks. 

Hawks  abound.  In  his  treatise  on  falconry, 
—  134  — 


MY  FAMILY 


Zuniga  mentions  the  Bahari  falcon,  propagated 
principally  among  the  mountains  of  Penacerrada. 

My  ancestors  originally  called  themselves 
Martinez  de  Baroja.  One  Martin  had  a  son  who 
was  known  as  Martinez.  This  Martinez  (son  of 
Martin)  doubtless  left  the  village,  and  as  there 
were  others  of  the  name  Martinez  (sons  of  Mar- 
tin), they  dubbed  him  the  Martinez  of  Baroja,  or 
Martinez  de  Baroja. 

The  Martinez  de  Barojas  lived  in  that  coun- 
try for  many  years;  they  were  hidalgos,  Chris- 
tians of  old  stock.  And  mere  is  still  a  family 
of  the  name  in  Penacerrada. 

One  Martinez  de  Baroja,  by  name  Juan,  who 
lived  in  the  village  of  Samiano,  upon  becoming 
outraged  because  of  an  attempt  to  force  him  to 
pay  tribute  to  the  Count  of  Salinas — in  those 
days  a  very  natural  source  of  offence — took  an 
appeal  in  the  year  1616  from  a  ruling  of  the 
Prosecuting  Attorney  of  His  Majesty  and  the 
Alcaldes  and  Regidors  of  the  Earldom  of  Tre- 
vifio,  and  he  was  sustained  by  the  Chamber  of 
Hidalgos  at  Valladolid,  which  decided  in  his 
favour  in  a  decree  dated  the  eighth  day  of  the 
month  of  August,  1619. 

This  same  hidalgo,  Juan  Martinez  de  Baroja, 
—  135  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


moved  the  enforcement  of  this  decree,  as  is  af- 
firmed by  a  writ  of  execution  which  is  inscribed 
on  forty-five  leaves  of  parchment,  to  which  is 
attached  a  leaden  seal  pendant  from  a  cord  of 
silk,  at  the  end  of  which  may  be  found  the  stipu- 
lations of  the  judgment  entered  against  the  Mu- 
nicipality and  Corporation  of  the  Town  and 
Earldom  of  Trevino  and  the  Village  of  Samiano. 

The  Martinez  de  Barojas,  despite  the  fact  that 
they  sprang  from  the  land  of  the  falcon  and  the 
hawk,  in  temper  must  have  been  dark,  heavy, 
rough.  They  were  members  of  the  Brotherhood 
of  San  Martin  de  Penacerrada,  which  apparently 
was  of  great  account  in  those  regions,  besides 
being  regidors  and  alcaldes  of  the  Santa  Her- 
mandad,  a  rural  police  and  judicial  organiza- 
tion which  extended  throughout  the  country. 

In  the  eighteenth  century,  one  of  the  family, 
my  great-grandfather  Rafael,  doubtless  possess- 
ing more  initiative,  or  having  more  of  the  hawk 
in  him  than  the  others,  grew  tired  of  ploughing 
up  the  earth,  and  left  the  village,  turning  phar- 
macist, setting  up  in  1803  at'Oyarzun,  in  Gui- 
piizcoa.  This  Rafael  shortened  his  name  and 
signed  himself  Rafael  de  Baroja. 

Don  Rafael  must  have  been  a  man  of  modern 


MY  FAMILY 


sympathies,  for  he  bought  a  printing  press  and 
began  to  issue  pamphlets  and  even  occasional 
books. 

Evidently  Don  Rafael  was  also  a  man  of  radi- 
cal ideas.  He  published  a  newspaper  at  San 
Sebastian  in  1822  and  1823,  which  he  called  El 
Liberal  Guipuzcoano.  I  have  seen  only  one 
copy  of  this,  and  that  was  in  the  National 
Library. 

That  this  newspaper  was  extremely  liberal, 
may  be  judged  by  the  articles  that  were  reprinted 
from  it  in  El  Espectador,  the  Masonic  journal 
published  at  Madrid  during  the  period.  Don 
Rafael  had  connections  both  with  constitutional- 
ists and  members  of  the  Gallic  party.  There 
must  have  been  antecedents  of  a  liberal  charac- 
ter in  our  family,  as  Don  Rafael's  uncle,  Don 
Juan  Jose  de  Baroja,  at  first  a  priest  at  Pipaon 
and  later  at  Vitoria,  had  baen  enrolled  in  the 
Basque  Sociedad  Economica. 

Don  Rafael  had  two  sons,  Ignacio  Ramon  and 
Pio.  They  settled  in  San  Sebastian  as  printers. 
Pio  was  my  grandfather. 

My  second  family  name,  Nessi,  ,as  I  have  said 
before,  comes  out  of  Lombardy  and  the  city  of 
Como. 

,—  137  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


The  Nessis  of  Como  fled  from  Austrian  rule, 
and  came  to  Spain,  probably  peddling  mouse- 
traps and  santi  boniti  barati. 

One  of  the  Nessis,  who  survived  until  a  short 
time  ago,  always  said  that  the  family  had  been 
very  comfortably  off  in  Lombardy,  where  one  of 
his  relatives,  Guiseppe  Nessi,  a  doctor,  had  been 
professor  in  the  University  of  Pavia  during  the 
eighteenth  century,  besides  being  major  in  the 
Austrian  Army. 

As  mementos  of  the  Italian  branch  of  the  fam- 
ily, I  still  preserve  a  few  views  of  Lake  Como 
in  my  house,  a  crude  image  of  the  Christ  of  the 
Annunziatta,  stamped  on  cloth,  and  a  volume  of 
a  treatise  on  surgery  by  Nessi,  which  bears  the 
imprimatur  of  the  Inquisition  at  Venice. 


—  138  — 


VIII 
MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

SAN  SEBASTIAN 

I  was  born  in  San  Sebastian  on  the  28th  of 
December,  1872.  So  I  am  not  only  a  Guipuz- 
coan  but  a  native  of  San  Sebastian.  The  former 
I  regard  as  an  honour,  but  the  latter  means  very 
little  to  me. 

I  should  prefer  to  have  been  born  in  a  moun- 
tain hamlet  or  in  a  small  coast  town,  rather  than 
in  a  city  of  summer  visitors  and  hotel  keepers. 

Garat,  who  was  a  most  conventional  person 
who  lived  in  Bayonne,  always  used  to  maintain 
that  he  came  from  Ustariz.  I  might  say  that  I 
am  from  Vera  del  Bidasoa,  but  I  should  not  de- 
ceive myself. 

There  are  several  reasons  why  I  dislike  San 
Sebastian : 

In  the  first  place,  the  city  is  not  beautiful, 
when  it  might  well  be  so.  It  is  made  up  of 
straight  streets  which  are  all  alike,  together  with 
—  139  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


two  or  three  monuments  that  are  horrible.  The 
general  construction  is  miserable  and  shoddy. 
Although  excellent  stone  abounds  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, no  one  has  had  the  sense  to  erect  any- 
thing either  noble  or  dignified.  Cheap  houses 
confront  the  eye  on  all  sides,  whether  simple  or 
pretentious.  Whenever  the  citizens  of  San  Se- 
bastian raise  their  hands — and  in  this  they  are 
abetted  by  the  Madrilenos — they  do  something 
ugly.  They  have  defaced  Monte  Igueldo  al- 
ready, and  now  they  are  defacing  the  Castillo. 
Tomorrow,  they  will  manage  somehow  to  spoil 
the  sea,  the  sky,  and  the  air. 

As  for  the  spirit  of  the  city,  it  is  lamentable. 
There  is  no  interest  in  science,  art,  literature, 
history,  politics,  or  anything  else.  All  that  the 
inhabitants  think  about  are  the  King,  the  Queen 
Regent,  yachts,  bull  fights,  and  the  latest  fash- 
ions in  trousers. 

San  Sebastian  is  a  conglomeration  of  parvenus 
and  upstarts  from  Pamplona,  Saragossa,  Valla- 
dolid,  Chile  and  Chuquisaca,  who  are  anxious  to 
show  themselves  off.  Some  do  this  by  walking 
alongside  of  the  King,  or  by  taking  coffee  with  a 
famous  bull-fighter,  or  by  bowing  to  some  aristo- 
crat. The  young  men  of  San  Sebastian  are 
—  140  — 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

among  the  most  worthless  in  Spain.     I  have  al- 
ways looked  upon  them  as  infra  human. 

As  for  the  ladies,  many  of  them  might  be 
taken  for  princesses  in  summer,  but  their  winter 
tertulias  are  on  a  level  with  a  porter's  lodge 
where  they  play  julepe.  It  is  a  card  game,  but 
the  word  means  dose,  and  Madame  Recamier 
would  have  fainted  at  the  mention  of  it. 

When  I  observe  these  parvenus'  attempts  to 
shine,  I  think  to  myself:  "The  ostentation  of 
the  freshman  year  at  college.  How  unfortunate 
that  some  of  us  have  moved  on  to  the  doctorate!" 

No  one  reads  in  San  Sebastian.  They  run 
over  the  society  news,  and  then  drop  the  paper 
for  fear  their  brains  will  begin  to  smoke. 

This  city,  imagining  itself  to  be  so  cultivated, 
although  it  really  is  a  new  town,  is  under  the 
domination  of  a  few  Jesuit  fathers,  who,  like 
most  of  the  present  days  sons  of  Loyola,  are 
coarse,  heavy  and  wholly  lacking  in  real  ability. 

The  Jesuit  manages  the  women,  which  is  not  a 
very  difficult  thing  to  do,  as  he  holds  the  leading 
strings  of  the  sexual  life  in  his  hands.  In  addi- 
tion he  influences  the  men. 

He  assists  the  young  who  are  of  good  social 
standing,  who  belong  to  distinguished  families, 
—  141  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


and  brings  about  desirable  matches.  The  poor 
can  do  anything  they  like.  They  are  at  liberty 
to  eat,  to  get  drunk,  to  do  whatever  they  will  ex- 
cept to  read.  These  unhappy,  timid,  torpid 
clerks  and  hangers-on  imagine  they  are  free  men 
whenever  they  get  drunk.  They  do  not  see  that 
they  are  like  the  Redskins,  whom  the  Yankees 
poisoned  with  alcohol  so  as  to  hold  them  in  check. 

I  inspected  a  club  installed  in  a  house  in  the 
older  part  of  the  city  some  years  ago. 

A  sign  on  one  door  read  "Library."  When  it 
was  opened,  I  was  shown,  laughing,  a  room 
filled  with  bottles. 

"If  a  Jesuit  could  see  this,  he  would  be  in 
ecstasy,"  I  exclaimed.  "Yes,  replacing  books 
with  wines  and  liquors!  What  a  business  for 
the  sons  of  Saint  Ignatius!" 

In  spite  of  all  its  display,  all  its  tinsel,  all 
its  Jesuitism,  all  its  bad  taste,  San  Sebastian  will 
become  an  important,  dignified  city  within  a  very 
few  years.  When  that  time  comes,  the  author 
who  has  been  born  there,  will  not  prefer  to  hail 
from  some  hamlet  buried  in  the  mountains, 
rather  than  from  the  capital  of  Guipiizcoa.  But 
I  myself  prefer  it.  I  have  no  city,  and  I  hold 
myself  to  be  strictly  extra-urban. 
—  142  — 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

MY  PARENTS 

My  father,  Serafin  Baroja  y  Zornoza,  was  a 
mining  engineer,  who  wrote  books  both  in  Gas- 
tilian  and  Basque,  and  he,  too,  came  from  San 
Sebastian.  My  mother's  name  is  Carmen  Nessi 
y  Goiii.  She  was  born  in  Madrid. 

I  should  be  a  very  good  man.  My  father  was 
a  good  man,  although  he  was  capricious  and  arbi- 
trary, and  my  mother  is  a  good  woman,  firmer 
and  more  positive  in  her  manifestations  of  virtue. 
Yet,  I  am  not  without  reputation  for  ferocity, 
which,  perhaps,  is  deserved. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  believed  for  a  long  while 
that  I  had  been  born  in  the  Calle  del  Puyuelo  in 
San  Sebastian,  where  we  once  lived.  The  street 
is  well  within  the  old  town,  and  truly  ugly  and 
forlorn.  The  mere  idea  of  it  was  and  is  dis- 
tasteful to  me. 

When  I  complained  to  my  mother  about  my 
birthplace  and  its  want  of  attractiveness,  she 
replied  that  I  was  born  in  a  beautiful  house 
near  the  esplanade  of  La  Zurriola,  fronting  on 
the  Calle  de  Oquendo,  which  belonged  to  my 
grandmother  and  looked  out  upon  the  sea,  al- 
though the  house  does  so  no  longer,  as  a  theatre 
—  143  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


has  been  erected  directly  in  front.  I  am  glad 
that  I  was  born  near  the  sea,  because  it  suggests 
freedom  and  change. 

My  paternal  grandmother,  Dona  Concepcion 
Zornoza,  was  a  woman  of  positive  ideas  and 
somewhat  eccentric.  She  was  already  old  when 
I  knew  her.  She  had  mortgaged  several  houses 
which  she  owned  in  the  city  in  order  to  build  the 
house  which  was  occupied  by  us  in  La  Zurriola. 

Her  plan  was  to  furnish  it  and  rent  it  to  King 
Amadeo.  Before  Amadeo  arrived  at  San  Se- 
bastian, however,  the  Carlist  war  broke  out,  and 
the  monarch  of  the  house  of  Savoy  was  com- 
pelled to  abdicate,  and  my  grandmother  to 
abandon  her  plans. 

My  earliest  recollection  is  the  Carlist  attempt 
to  bombard  San  Sebastian.  It  is  a  memory 
which  has  now  grown  very  dim,  and  what  I  saw 
has  been  confused  with  what  I  have  heard.  I 
have  a  confused  recollection  of  the  bringing  in 
of  soldiers  on  stretchers,  and  of  having  peeped 
over  the  wall  of  a  little  cemetery  near  the  city, 
in  which  corpses  were  laid  out,  still  unburied. 

As  I  have  said,  my  father  was  a  mining  en- 
gineer, but  during  the  war  he  was  engaged  in 
teaching  natural  history  at  the  Institute.  I  have 
—  144  — 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

no  idea  how  this  came  about.  He  was  also  one 
of  the  Liberal  volunteers. 

I  have  a  vague  idea  that  one  night  I  was  taken 
from  my  bed,  wrapped  up  in  a  mantle,  and  car- 
ried to  a  chalet  on  the  Concha,  belonging  to  one 
Errazu,  who  was  a  relative  of  my  mother's. 
We  lived  there  for  a  time  in  the  cellar  of  the 
chalet. 

Three  shells,  which  were  known  in  those  days 
as  cucumbers,  dropped  on  the  house,  and 
wrecked  the  roof,  making  a  great  hole  in  the 
wall  which  separated  our  garden  from  the  next. 

MONSIGNOR,    THE    CAT 

Monsignor  was  a  handsome  yellow  cat  be- 
longing to  us  while  we  were  living  in  the  cellar 
of  Seiior  Errazu's  chalet. 

From  what  I  have  since  learned,  his  name  was 
a  tribute  to  the  extraordinary  reputation  en- 
joyed at  that  period  by  Monsignor  Simeoni. 

Monsignor — I  am  referring  to  the  yellow  cat 
— was  intelligent.  A  bell  surmounted  the  Cas- 
tillo de  la  Mota  at  San  Sebastian,  by  whose  side 
was  stationed  a  look-out.  When  the  look-out 
spied  the  flash  of  Carlist  guns,  he  rang  the  bell, 
—  145  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


and  then  the  townspeople  retired  into  the  door- 
ways and  cellars. 

Monsignor  was  aware  of  the  relation  of  the 
bell  to  the  cannonading,  so  when  the  bell  rang,  he 
promptly  withdrew  into  the  house,  even  going  so 
far  sometimes  as  to  creep  under  the  beds. 

My  father  had  friends  who  were  not  above 
going  down  into  our  cellar  on  such  occasions  so 
as  better  to  observe  the  manoeuvres  of  the  cat. 

Two  LUNATICS 

After  the  war,  I  used  to  stroll  as  a  boy  with 
my  mother  and  brothers  to  the  Castillo  de  la 
Mota  on  Sundays.  It  was  truly  a  beautiful  walk, 
which  will  soon  be  ruined  utterly  by  the  citizens 
of  San  Sebastian.  We  looked  out  to  sea  from 
the  Castillo  and  then  we  talked  with  the  guard. 
We  often  met  a  lunatic  there,  who  was  in  the 
care  of  a  servant.  As  soon  as  he  caught  sight 
of  us  children,  the  lunatic  was  happy  at  once, 
but  if  a  woman  came  near  him,  he  ran  away  and 
flattened  himself  against  the  walls,  kicking  and 
crying  out:  "Blind  dog!  Blind  dog!" 

I  remember  also  having  seen  a  young  woman, 
who  was  insane,  in  a  great  house  which  we  used 
—  146  — 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

to  visit  in  those  days  at  Loyola.  She  gesticu- 
lated and  gazed  continually  into  a  deep  well, 
where  a  half  moon  of  black  water  was  visible  far 
below.  These  lunatics,  one  at  the  Castillo  and 
the  other  in  that  great  house,  haunted  my  imag- 
ination as  a  child. 

THE  HAWK 

My  latest  recollection  of  San  Sebastian  is  of 
a  hawk,  which  we  brought  home  to  our  house 
from  the  Castillo. 

Some  soldiers  gave  us  the  hawk  when  it  was 
still  very  young,  and  it  grew  up  and  became  ac- 
customed to  living  indoors.  We  fed  it  snails, 
which  it  gulped  down  as  if  they  were  bonbons. 

When  it  was  full-grown,  it  escaped  to  the  court- 
yard and  attacked  our  chickens,  to  say  nothing  of 
all  the  cats  of  the  neighbourhood.  It  hid  under 
the  beds  during  thundershowers. 

When  we  moved  away  from  San  Sebastian,  we 
were  obliged  to  leave  the  hawk  behind.  We  car- 
ried him  up  to  the  Castillo  one  day,  turned  him 
loose,  and  off  he  flew. 


147  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


IN  MADRID 

We  moved  from  San  Sebastian  to  Madrid. 
My  father  had  received  an  appointment  to  the 
Geographic  and  Political  Institute.  We  lived  on 
the  Calle  Real,  just  beyond  the  Glorieta  de  Bil- 
bao, in  a  street  which  is  now  a  prolongation  of 
the  Calle  de  Fuencarral. 

Opposite  our  house,  there  was  a  piece  of  high 
ground,  which  has  not  yet  been  removed,  which 
went  by  the  name  of  "La  Era  del  Mico,"  or  "The 
Monkey  Field."  Swings  and  merry-go-rounds 
were  scattered  all  over  it,  so  that  the  diversions 
of  "La  Era  del  Mico"  together  with  the  two- 
wheeled  calashes  and  chaises  which  were  still 
in  use  in  those  days,  and  the  funerals  passing 
continually  through  the  street,  were  the  amuse- 
ments which  were  provided  ready-made  for  us, 
as  we  looked  down  from  our  balcony. 

Two  sensational  executions  took  place  while 
we  lived  here — those  of  the  regicide  Otero  and 
of  Oliva — one  following  closely  on  the  heels  of 
the  other.  We  heard  the  Salve,  or  prayer,  which 
is  sung  by  the  prisoners  for  the  criminal  awaiting 
death,  hawked  about  us  then  on  the  streets. 


148 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

IN  PAMPLONA 

From  Madrid  we  went  to  Pamplona.  Pam- 
plona was  still  a  curious  city  maintaining  cus- 
toms which  would  have  been  appropriate  to  a 
state  of  war.  The  draw-bridges  were  raised  at 
night,  only  one,  or  perhaps  two,  gates  being  left 
open,  I  am  not  certain  which. 

Pamplona  proved  an  amusing  place  for  a 
small  boy.  There  were  the  walls  with  their 
glacis,  their  sentry  boxes,  their  cannon;  there 
were  the  gates,  the  river,  the  cathedral  and  the 
surrounding  quarters — all  of  them  very  attrac- 
tive to  us. 

We  studied  at  the  Institute  and  committed  all 
sorts  of  pranks  like  the  other  students.  We 
played  practical  jokes  in  the  houses  of  the 
canons,  and  threw  stones  at  the  bishop's  palace, 
many  of  the  windows  of  which  were  already 
paneless  and  forlorn. 

We  also  made  wild  excursions  to  the  roof  of 
our  house  and  to  those  of  other  houses  in  the 
neighbourhood,  prying  about  the  garrets  and 
peering  down  over  the  cornices  into  the  court- 
yards. 

Once  we  seized  a  stuffed  eagle,  cherished  by  a 
—  149  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


neighbour,  hauled  it  to  the  attic,  pulled  it  through 
the  skylight  to  the  roof,  and  flung  it  down  into 
the  street,  creating  a  genuine  panic  among  the 
innocent  passers-by,  when  they  saw  the  huge  bird 
drop  at  their  feet. 

One  of  my  most  vivid  memories  of  Pamplona 
is  seeing  a  criminal  on  his  way  to  execution 
passing  our  house,  attired  in  a  round  cap  and 
yellow  robe. 

It  was  one  of  the  sights  which  has  impressed 
me  most.  Later  in  the  afternoon,  driven  by 
curiosity,  knowing  that  the  man  who  had  been 
garroted  must  be  still  on  the  scaffold,  I  ventured 
alone  to  see  him,  and  remained  there  examining 
him  closely  for  a  long  time.  When  I  returned 
home  that  night,  I  was  unable  to  sleep  because 
of  the  impression  he  had  made. 

DON  Tmso  LAREQUI 

Many  other  vivid  memories  of  Pamplona  re- 
main with  me,  never  to  be  forgotten.  I  remem- 
ber a  lad  of  our  own  age  who  died,  leaping  from 
the  wall,  and  then  there  were  our  adventures 
along  the  river. 

Another  terrible  memory  was  associated  with 
—  150  — 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

the  cathedral.  I  had  begun  my  first  year  of 
Latin,  and  was  exactly  nine  at  the  time. 

We  had  come  out  of  the  Institute,  and  were 
watching  a  funeral.  Afterwards,  three  or  four 
of  the  boys,  among  whom  were  my  brother  Ri- 
cardo  and  myself,  entered  the  cathedral.  The 
echo  of  the  responses  was  ringing  in  my  ears 
and  I  hummed  them,  as  I  wandered  about  the 
aisles. 

Suddenly,  a  black  shadow  shot  from  behind 
one  of  the  confessionals,  pounced  upon  me  and 
seized  me  around  the  neck  with  both  hands,  al- 
most choking  me.  I  was  paralyzed  with  fear. 
It  proved  to  be  a  fat,  greasy  canon,  by  name 
Don  Tirso  Larequi. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  shouted,  shaking  me 
vigorously. 

I  could  not  answer  because  of  my  fright. 

"What  is  his  name?"  the  priest  demanded  of 
the  other  boys. 

"His  name  is  Antonio  Garcia,"  replied  my 
brother  Ricardo,  coolly. 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

"In  the  Calle  de  Curia,  Number  14." 

There  was  no  such  place,  of  course. 

"I  shall  see  your  father  at  once,"  shouted  the 
—  151  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


priest,  and  he  rushed  out  of  the  cathedral  like  a 
bull. 

My  brother  and  I  then  made  our  escape 
through  the  cloister. 

This  red-faced  priest,  fat  and  ferocious,  rush- 
ing out  of  the  dark  to  choke  a  nine-year-old  boy, 
has  always  been  to  me  a  symbol  of  the  Catholic 
religion. 

This  experience  of  my  boyhood  partly  ex- 
plains my  anti-clericalism.  I  recall  Don  Tirso 
with  an  undying  hate,  and  were  he  still  alive — I 
have  no  idea  whether  he  is  or  not — I  should  not 
hesitate  to  climb  up  to  the  roof  of  his  house  some 
dark  night,  and  shout  down  his  chimney  in  a  cav- 
ernous voice:  "Don  Tirso!  You  are  a  damned 
villain!" 

A  VISIONARY  ROWDY 

I  was  something  of  a  rowdy  as  a  boy  and 
rather  quarrelsome.  The  first  day  I  went  to 
school  in  Pamplona,  I  came  out  disputing  with 
another  boy  of  my  own  age,  and  we  fought  in  the 
street  until  we  were  separated  by  a  cobbler  and 
the  blows  of  a  leather  strap,  to  which  he  added 
kicks.  Later,  I  foolishly  quarrelled  and  fought 
—  152  — 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

whenever  the  other  boys  set  me  on.  In  our 
stone-throwing  escapades  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  I  was  always  the  aggressor,  and  quite  in- 
defatigable. 

When  I  began  to  study  medicine,  I  found  that 
my  aggressiveness  had  departed  completely. 
One  day  after  quarrelling  with  another  student 
in  the  cloisters  of  San  Carlos,  I  challenged  him 
to  fight.  When  we  got  out  on  the  street,  it 
struck  me  as  foolish  to  goad  him  to  hit  me  in  the 
eye  or  else  to  land  on  my  nose  with  his  fist,  and  I 
slipped  off  and  went  home.  I  lost  my  morale 
as  a  bully  then  and  there.  Although  I  was  a 
fighter  from  infancy,  I  was  also  something  of  a 
dreamer,  and  the  two  strains  scarcely  make  a 
harmonious  blend. 

Before  I  was  grown,  I  saw  Gisbert's  Death  of 
the  Comuneros  reproduced  as  a  chromo.  For  a 
long,  long  while,  I  always  seemed  to  see  that 
picture  hanging  in  all  its  variety  of  colour  on  the 
wall  before  me  at  night.  For  months  and 
months  after  my  vigil  with  the  body  of  the  man 
who  had  been  garroted  outside  of  Pamplona,  I 
never  entered  a  dark  room  but  that  his  image  rose 
up  before  me  in  all  its  gruesome  details.  I  also 
passed  through  a  period  of  disagreeable  dreams. 
—  153  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


Some  time  would  elapse  after  I  awoke  before  I 
was  able  to  tell  where  I  was,  and  I  was  fright- 
ened by  it. 

V. 

SARASATE 

It  was  my  opinion  then,  and  still  is,  that  a 
fiesta  at  Pamplona  is  among  the  most  vapid 
things  in  the  world. 

There  was  a  mixture  of  incomprehension  and 
culture  in  Pamplona,  that  was  truly  ridiculous. 
The  people  would  devote  several  days  to  going  to 
bull  fights,  and  then  turn  about,  when  evening 
came,  and  welcome  Sarasate  with  Greek  fire. 

A  rude  and  fanatical  populace  forgot  its  orgy 
of  blood  to  acclaim  a  violinist.  And  what  a 
violinist!  He  was  one  of  the  most  effeminate 
and  grotesque  individuals  in  the  world.  I  can 
see  him  yet,  strutting  along  with  his  long  hair, 
his  ample  rear,  and  his  shoes  with  their  little 
quarter-heels,  which  gave  him  the  appearance  of 
a  fat  cook  dressed  up  in  men's  clothes  for 
Carnival. 

When  Sarasate  died  he  left  a  number  of 
trinkets  which  had  been  presented  to  him  during 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

his  artistic  career — mostly  match-boxes,  ciga- 
rette cases,  and  the  like — which  the  Town  Coun- 
cil of  Pamplona  has  assembled  and  now  exhibits 
in  glass  cases,  but  which,  in  the  public  interest, 
should  be  promptly  disposed  of  at  auction. 

ROBINSON  CRUSOE  AND  THE  MYSTERIOUS  ISLAND 

During  my  life  in  Pamplona,  my  brother  Ri- 
cardo  imparted  his  enthusiasm  for  two  stories  to 
me.  These  were  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Jules 
Verne's  The  Mysterious  Island,  or  rather,  I 
should  say  they  were  The  Mysterious  Island  and 
Robinson  Crusoe,  because  we  preferred  Jules 
Verne's  tale  greatly  to  Defoe's. 

We  would  dream  about  desert  islands,  about 
manufacturing  electric  batteries  in  the  fashion  of 
the  engineer  Cyrus  Harding,  and  as  we  were  not 
very  certain  of  finding  any  "Granite  House"  dur- 
ing the  course  of  our  adventures,  Ricardo  would 
paint  and  paint  at  plans  and  elevations  of  houses 
which  we  hoped  to  construct  in  its  place  in  those 
far-off,  savage  lands. 

He  also  made  pictures  of  ships  which  we  took 
care  should  be  rigged  properly. 

There  were  two  variations  of  this  dream  of 
—  155  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


adventure — one  involving  a  snow-house,  with 
appropriate  episodes  such  as  nocturnal  attacks 
by  bears,  wolves,  and  the  like,  and  then  we 
planned  a  sea  voyage. 

I  rebelled  a  long  time  at  the  notion  that  my 
life  must  be  like  that  of  everybody  else,  but 
I  had  no  recourse  in  the  end  but  to  capitulate. 


156  — 


IX 


I  was  never  more  than  commonplace  as  a  stu- 
dent, inclining  rather  to  be  bad  than  good.  I 
had  no  great  liking  for  study,  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  never  entertained  any  clear  idea  of  what 
I  was  studying. 

For  example,  I  never  knew  what  the  word 
preterite  meant  until  years  after  completing  my 
course,  although  I  had  repeated  over  and  over 
again  that  the  preterite,  or  past  perfect,  was  thus, 
while  the  imperfect  was  thus,  without  having  any 
conception  that  the  word  preterite  meant  past — 
that  it  was  a  past  that  was  entirely  past  in  the 
former  case,  and  a  past  that  was  past  to  a  less 
degree  in  the  latter. 

To  complete  two  years  of  Latin  grammar,  two 
of  French,  and  one  of  German  without  having 
any  conception  of  what  preterite  meant,  demon- 
strated one  of  two  things:  either  my  stupidity 
was  very  great,  or  the  system  of  instruction  de- 
—  157  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


plorable.  Naturally,  I  incline  toward  the  second 
alternative. 

While  preparing  to  take  my  degree  in  medi- 
cine, when  I  was  studying  chemical  analysis,  I 
heard  a  student,  who  was  already  a  practising 
physician,  state  that  zinc  was  an  element  which 
contained  a  great  deal  of  hydrogen.  When  the 
professor  attempted  to  extricate  him  from  his 
difficulty,  it  became  apparent  that  the  future  doc- 
tor had  no  idea  of  what  an  element  was.  My 
classmate,  who  doubtless  entertained  as  little 
liking  for  chemistry  as  I  did  for  grammar,  had 
not  been  able  throughout  his  entire  course  to 
grasp  the  definition  of  an  element,  as  I  had  never 
been  able  to  comprehend  what  a  preterite  might 
be. 

For  my  part — and  I  believe  that  all  of  us  have 
had  the  same  experience — I  have  never  been  suc- 
cessful in  mastering  those  subjects  which  have 
not  interested  me. 

Doubtless,  also,  my  mental  development  has 
been  slow. 

As  for  memory,  I  have  always  possessed  very 

little.     And   liking   for   study,   none   whatever. 

Sacred   history,    or   any   other   history,    Latin, 

French,  rhetoric  and  natural  history  have  inter- 

—  158  — 


A  STUDENT 


ested  me  not  at  all.     The  only  subjects  for  which 
I  cared  somewhat,  were  geometry  and  physics. 

My  college  course  left  me  with  two  or  three 
ideas  in  my  head,  whereupon  I  applied  myself 
to  making  ready  for  my  professional  career,  as 
one  swallows  a  bitter  dose. 

In  my  novel,  The  Tree  of  Knowledge,  I  have 
drawn  a  picture  of  myself,  in  which  the  psycho- 
logical features  remain  unchanged,  although 
I  have  altered  the  hero's  environment,  as  well  as 
his  family  relations,  together  with  a  number  of 
details. 

Besides  the  defects  with  which  I  have  endowed 
my  hero  in  this  book,  I  was  cursed  with  an  in- 
stinctive slothfulness  and  sluggishness  which 
were  not  to  be  denied. 

People  would  tell  me:  "Now  is  the  time  for 
you  to  study;  later  on,  you  will  have  leisure  to 
enjoy  yourself;  and  after  that  will  come  the  time 
to  make  money." 

But  I  needed  all  three  times  in  which  to  do 
nothing — and  I  could  have  used  another  three 
hundred. 


—  159  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


PROFESSORS 

I  have  not  been  fortunate  in  my  professors. 
It  might  be  urged  that  I  have  not  been  in  a  posi- 
tion, being  idle  and  sluggish,  to  take  advantage 
of  their  instruction.  I  believe,  however,  that  if 
they  had  been  good  teachers,  now  that  so  many 
years  have  passed,  I  should  be  able  to  acknowl- 
edge their  merits. 

I  cannot  remember  a  single  teacher  who  knew 
how  to  teach,  or  who  succeeded  in  arousing  any 
interest  in  what  he  taught,  or  who  had  any  com- 
prehension of  the  student  mentality.  No  one 
learned  how  to  reason  in  the  schools  of  my  youth, 
nor  mastered  any  theory,  nor  acquired  a  practical 
knowledge  of  anything.  In  other  words,  we 
learned  nothing. 

In  medicine,  the  professors  adhered  to  a  sys- 
tem that  was  the  most  foolish  imaginable.  In 
the  two  universities  in  which  I  studied,  subjects 
might  be  taken  only  by  halves,  which  would  have 
been  ridiculous  enough  in  any  branch,  but  it 
was  even  more  preposterous  in  medicine.  Thus, 
in  pathology,  a  certain  number  of  intending 
physicians  studied  the  subject  of  infection,  while 
others  studied  nervous  disorders,  and  yet  oth- 
—  160  — 


AS  A  STUDENT 


ers  the  diseases  of  the  respiratory  organs.  No- 
body studied  all  three.  A  plan  of  this  sort  could 
only  have  been  conceived  by  Spanish  professors, 
who,  it  may  be  said  in  general,  are  the  quintes- 
sence of  vacuity. 

"What  difference  does  it  make  whether  the 
students  learn  anything  or  not?"  every  Spanish 
professor  asks  himself  continually. 

Unamuno  says,  apropos  of  the  backwardness 
of  Spaniards  in  the  field  of  invention:  "Other 
nations  can  do  the  inventing."  In  other  words, 
let  foreigners  build  up  the  sciences,  so  that  we 
may  take  advantage  of  them. 

There  was  one  among  my  professors  who  con- 
sidered himself  a  born  teacher  and,  moreover,  a 
man  of  genius,  and  he  was  Letamendi.  I  made 
clear  in  my  Tree  of  Knowledge  what  I  thought  of 
this  professor,  who  was  not  destitute,  indeed,  of 
a  certain  talent  as  an  orator  and  man  of  letters. 
When  he  wrote,  he  was  rococo,  like  so  many 
Catalans.  Sometimes  he  would  discourse  upon 
art,  especially  upon  painting,  in  the  class-room, 
but  the  ideas  he  entertained  were  preposterous. 
I  recall  that  he  once  said  that  a  mouse  and  a 
book  were  not  a  fit  subject  for  a  painting,  but  if 
you  were  to  write  the  words  Aristotle's  Works 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


on  the  book,  and  then  set  the  mouse  to  gnawing 
at  it,  what  had  originally  meant  nothing  would 
immediately  become  a  subject  for  a  picture. 
Yes,  a  picture  to  be  hawked  at  the  street  fairs! 

Letamendi  was  prolixity  and  puerile  ingenuity 
personified.  Yet  Letamendi  was  no  different 
from  all  other  Spaniards  of  his  day,  including 
even  the  most  celebrated,  such  as  Castelar,  Eche- 
garay  and  Valera. 

These  men  read  much,  they  possessed  good 
memories,  but  I  verily  believe  that,  honestly, 
they  understood  nothing.  Not  one  of  them  had 
an  inkling  of  that  almost  tragic  sense  of  the  dig- 
nity of  culture  or  of  the  obligations  which  it 
imposes,  which  distinguishes  the  Germans  above 
all  other  nationalities.  They  nearly  all  revealed 
an  attitude  toward  science  which  would  have  sat 
easily  upon  a  smart,  sharp-tongued  Andalusian 
young  gentleman. 

I  recall  a  profoundly  moving  letter  by  the 
critic  Garve,  which  is  included  in  Kant's  Prole- 
gomena. 

Garve  wrote  an  article  upon  The  Critique  of 
Pure  Reason,  and  sent  it  to  a  journal  at  Gottin- 
gen,  and  the  editor  of  the  journal,  in  malice  and 
animosity  toward  Kant,  so  altered  it  that  it  be- 


AS  A  STUDENT 


came  an  attack  on  the  philosopher,  and  then  pub- 
lished it  unsigned. 

Kant  invited  his  anonymous  critic  to  divulge 
his  name,  whereupon  Garve  wrote  to  Kant  ex- 
plaining what  had  taken  place,  and  Kant  made  a 
reply. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  parallel  in  nobility 
these  two  letters,  which  were  exchanged  be- 
tween a  comprehensive  intellect  such  as  Garve 
and  one  of  the  most  portentous  geniuses  of  the 
world,  as  was  Kant. 

They  appear  to  be  two  travellers,  face  to 
face  with  the  mystery  of  Nature  and  the  Un- 
known. No  such  feeling  for  learning  and  cul- 
ture is  to  be  met  with  among  our  miserably  af- 
fected Latin  mountebanks. 

ANTI-MILITARISM 

I  am  an  anti-militarist  by  inheritance.  The 
Basques  have  never  been  good  soldiers  in  the 
regular  army.  My  great-grandfather  Nessi 
probably  fled  from  Italy  as  a  deserter.  I  have 
always  loathed  barracks,  messes,  and  officers 
profoundly. 

One  day,  when  I  was  studying  therapeutics 
with  Don  Benito  Hernando,  my  brother  opened 
—  163  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


the  door  of  the  class-room  and  motioned  for  me 
to  come  out. 

I  did  so,  at  the  cost,  by  the  way,  of  a  furious 
scene  with  Don  Benito,  who  shattered  several 
test  tubes  in  his  wrath. 

The  cause  of  my  brother's  appearance  was  to 
advise  me  that  the  Alcaldia  del  Centre,  or  Town 
Council  of  the  Central  District,  had  given  notice 
to  the  effect  that  if  I  did  not  present  myself  for 
the  draft,  I  was  to  be  declared  in  default.  As  I 
had  already  laid  before  the  Board  a  copy  of  a 
royal  decree  in  which  my  name  was  set  down  as 
exempt  from  the  draft  because  my  father  had 
served  as  a  Liberal  Volunteer  in  the  late  war, 
and  because,  in  addition,  I  was  born  in  the 
Basque  provinces,  I  had  supposed  that  the  mat- 
ter had  been  disposed  of.  One  of  those  ill- 
natured,  dictatorial  officials  who  held  sway  in  the 
offices  of  the  Board,  took  it  upon  himself  to  rule 
that  the  exemption  held  good  only  in  the  Basque 
provinces,  but  not  in  Madrid,  and  so,  in  fact,  for 
the  time  it  proved  to  be.  In  spite  of  my  furious 
protests,  I  was  compelled  to  report  and  submit  to 
have  my  measurements  taken,  and  was  well  nigh 
upon  the  point  of  being  marched  off  to  the  bar- 
racks. 

—  164  — 


AS  A  STUDENT 


"I  am  no  soldier,"  I  thought  to  myself.  "If 
they  insist,  I  shall  run  away." 

I  went  at  once  from  the  Alcaldia  to  the  Minis- 
try and  called  upon  a  Guipuzcoan  politician,  as 
my  father  had  previously  advised  me  to  do;  but 
the  man  was  a  political  mastodon,  puffed  up  with 
huge  pretensions,  who,  perhaps,  might  have  been 
a  stevedore  in  any  other  country.  So  he  did 
nothing.  Finally,  it  occurred  to  me  to  go  and 
see  the  Conde  de  Romanones,  who  had  just  been 
appointed  Alcalde  del  Centre,  having  jurisdic- 
tion over  the  district. 

When  I  entered  his  office,  Romanones  ap- 
peared to  be  in  a  jovial  frame  of  mind.  He 
wore  a  flower  in  his  button-hole.  Two  persons 
were  with  him,  one  of  whom  was  no  other  than 
the  Secretary  of  the  Board,  my  enemy. 

I  related  what  had  happened  to  Romanones 
with  great  force.  The  Secretary  then  answered. 

"The  young  man  is  right,"  said  the  Count. 
"Bring  me  the  roll  of  the  draft." 

The  roll  was  brought.  Romanones  took  his 
pen  and  crossed  my  name  off  altogether.  Then 
he  turned  to  me  with  a  smile: 

"Don't  you  care  to  be  a  soldier?" 

"No,  sir." 

—  165  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


"But  what  are  you,  a  student?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"In  which  branch?" 

"Medicine." 

"Good!     Very  good.     You  may  go  now." 

I  would  willingly  have  been  anything  to  have 
escaped  becoming  a  soldier,  and  so  be  obliged 
to  live  in  barracks,  eat  mess,  and  parade. 

To  VALENCIA 

I  failed  in  both  June  and  September  during 
the  fourth  year  of  my  course,  which  was  a  mere 
matter  of  luck,  as  I  neither  applied  myself  more 
nor  less  than  in  previous  years. 

In  the  meantime  my  father  had  been  trans- 
ferred to  Valencia,  whither  it  seemed  wise  that  I 
should  remove  to  continue  my  studies. 

I  appeared  at  Valencia  in  January  for  a  sec- 
ond examination  in  general  pathology,  and 
failed  for  the  second  time. 

I  began  to  consider  giving  up  my  intended 
profession. 

I  found  that  I  had  lost  what  little  liking  I  had 
for  it.  As  I  had  no  friends  in  Valencia,  I  never 
left  the  house;  I  had  nowhere  to  go.  I  passed 
—  166  — 


AS  A  STUDENT 


my  days  stretched  out  on  the  roof,  or,  else,  in 
reading.  After  debating  long  what  I  should  do, 
and  realizing  fully  that  there  was  no  one  obvi- 
ous plan  to  pursue,  I  determined  to  finish  my 
course,  committing  the  required  subjects  me- 
chanically. After  adopting  this  plan,  I  never 
failed  once. 

When  I  came  up  for  graduation,  the  profes- 
sors made  an  effort  to  put  some  obstacles  in  my 
way,  which,  however,  were  not  sufficient  to  de- 
tain me. 

Admitted  as  a  physician,  I  decided  next  to 
study  for  the  doctor's  degree  at  Madrid. 

My  former  fellow-students,  when  they  saw 
that  now  I  was  doing  nicely,  all  exclaimed: 

"How  you  have  changed!  Now  you  pass 
your  examinations." 

"Passing  examinations,  you  know,  is  a  com- 
bination, like  a  gambling  game,"  I  told  them. 
"I  have  found  a  combination." 


—  167  — 


X 

AS  A  VILLAGE  DOCTOR 

I  returned  to  Burjasot,  a  small  town  near 
Valencia,  where  my  family  lived  at  the  time,  a 
full-fledged  doctor.  We  had  a  tiny  house,  be- 
sides a  garden  containing  pear,  peach  and  pome- 
granate trees. 

I  passed  some  time  there  very  pleasantly. 

My  father  was  a  contributor  to  the  Voz  de 
Guipuzcoa  of  San  Sebastian,  so  he  always  re- 
ceived the  paper.  One  day  I  read — or  it  may 
have  been  one  of  the  family — that  the  post  of 
official  physician  was  vacant  in  the  town  of 
Cestona. 

I  decided  to  apply  for  the  place,  and  dis- 
patched a  letter  accompanied  by  a  copy  of  my 
diploma.  It  turned  out  that  I  was  the  only  ap- 
plicant, and  so  the  post  was  awarded  to  me. 

I  set  out  for  Madrid,  where  I  passed  the  night, 
and  then  proceeded  to  San  Sebastian,  receiving 
a  letter  from  my  father  upon  my  arrival,  in- 
forming me  that  there  was  another  physician  at 
—  168  — 


AS  A  VILLAGE  DOCTOR 


Cestona  who  was  receiving  a  larger  salary  than 
that  which  had  been  offered  to  me,  and  recom- 
mending that  perhaps  it  would  be  better  not  to 
put  in  appearance  too  soon,  until  I  was  better 
advised  as  to  the  prospects. 

I  hesitated. 

"In  any  event,"  I  thought,  "I  shall  learn  what 
the  town  is  like.  If  I  like  it,  I  shall  stay;  if  not, 
I  shall  return  to  Burjasot." 

I  took  the  diligence,  which  goes  by  the  name 
of  "La  Vascongada,"  and  made  the  trip  from 
San  Sebastian  to  Cestona,  which  proved  to  be 
long  enough  in  all  conscience,  as  we  were  five  or 
six  hours  late.  I  got  off  at  a  posada,  or  small 
inn,  at  Alcorta,  to  get  something  to  eat.  I  dined 
sumptuously,  drank  bravely,  and,  encouraged  by 
the  good  food,  made  up  my  mind  to  remain  in 
the  village.  I  talked  with  the  other  doctor  and 
with  the  alcalde,  and  soon  everything  was  ar- 
ranged that  had  to  be  arranged. 

As  night  was  coming  on,  the  priest  and  the 
doctor  recommended  that  I  go  to  board  at  the 
house  of  the  Sacristana,  as  she  had  a  room  va- 
cant, which  had  formerly  been  occupied  by  a 
notary. 

—  169  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


DOLORES,  LA  SACRISTANA 

Dolores,  my  landlady  and  mistress  of  the  Sa- 
cristy, was  an  agreeable,  exceedingly  energetic, 
exceedingly  hard-working  woman,  who  was  a 
pronounced  conservative. 

I  have  met  few  women  as  good  as  she.  In 
spite  of  the  fact  that  she  soon  discovered  that  I 
was  not  at  all  religious,  she  did  not  hold  it 
against  me,  nor  did  I  harbour  any  resentment 
against  her. 

I  often  read  her  the  Analejo,  or  church  cal- 
endar, which  is  known  as  the  Gallofa,  or  beg- 
gars' mite,  in  the  northern  provinces,  in  allusion 
to  the  ancient  custom  of  making  pilgrimages  to 
Santiago,  and  I  cooked  sugar  wafers  over  the 
fire  with  her  on  the  eve  of  feast  days,  at  which 
times  her  work  was  especially  severe. 

I  realized  in  Cestona  my  childish  ambitions 
of  having  a  house  of  my  own,  and  a  dog,  which 
had  lain  in  my  mind  ever  since  reading  Robin- 
son Crusoe  and  The  Mysterious  Island. 

I  also  had  an  old  horse  named  Juanillo,  which 
I  borrowed  from  a  coachman  in  San  Sebastian, 
but  I  never  liked  horses. 

The  horse  seems  to  me  to  be  a  militaristic, 
—  170  — 


A  VILLAGE  DOCTOR 


antipathetic  animal.  Neither  Robinson  Crusoe 
nor  Cyrus  Harding  rode  horse-back. 

I  committed  no  blunders  while  I  was  a  vil- 
lage doctor.  I  had  already  grown  prudent,  and 
my  sceptical  temperament  was  a  bar  to  any 
great  mistakes. 

I  first  began  to  realize  that  I  was  a  Basque 
in  Cestona,  and  I  recovered  my  pride  of  race 
there,  which  I  had  lost. 


—•171  — 


XI 
AS  A  BAKER 

I  have  been  asked  frequently:  "How  did  you 
ever  come  to  go  into  the  baking  business?"  I 
shall  now  proceed  to  answer  the  question,  al- 
though the  story  is  a  long  one. 

My  mother  had  an  aunt,  Juana  Nessi,  who 
was  a  sister  of  her  father's. 

This  lady  was  reasonably  attractive  when 
young,  and  married  a  rich  gentleman  just  re- 
turned from  America,  whose  name  was  Don 
Matias  Lacasa. 

Once  settled  in  Madrid,  Don  Matias,  who 
deemed  himself  an  eagle,  when,  in  reality,  he 
was  a  common  barnyard  rooster,  embarked 
upon  a  series  of  undertakings  that  failed  with 
truly  extraordinary  unanimity.  About  1870,  a 
physician  from  Valencia  by  the  name  of  Marti, 
who  had  visited  Vienna,  gave  him  an  account  of 
the  bread  they  make  there,  and  of  the  yeast  they 
use  to  raise  it,  enlarging  upon  the  profits  which 
lay  ready  to  hand  in  that  line. 
—  172  — 


AS  A  BAKER 


Don  Matias  was  convinced,  and  he  bought  an 
old  house  near  the  Church  of  the  Descalzas  upon 
Marti's  advice.  It  stood  in  a  street  which 
boasted  only  one  number — the  number  2.  I 
believe  the  street  was,  and  still  is,  called  the 
Calle  de  la  Misericordia. 

Marti  set  up  ovens  in  the  old  building  by  the 
Church  of  the  Descalzas,  and  the  business  be- 
gan to  yield  fabulous  profits.  Being  a  devotee 
of  the  life  of  pleasure,  Marti  died  three  or  four 
years  after  the  business  had  been  established, 
and  Don  Matias  continued  his  gallinaceous  evo- 
lutions until  he  was  utterly  ruined,  and  had 
pawned  everything  he  possessed,  remaining  at 
last  with  the  bakery  as  his  only  means  of  sup- 
port. 

He  succeeded  in  entangling  and  ruining  that, 
too,  before  he  died.  My  aunt  then  wrote  my 
mother  requesting  that  my  brother  Ricardo  come 
up  to  Madrid. 

My  brother  remained  in  Madrid  for  some 
time,  when  he  grew  tired  and  left;  then  I  went, 
and  later  we  were  both  there  together,  making 
an  effort  to  improve  the  business  and  to  push  it 
ahead.  Times  were  bad:  there  was  no  way  of 
pushing  ahead.  Surely  the  proverb  "Where 
—  173  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


flour  is  lacking,  everything  goes  packing,"  could 
never  have  been  applied  with  more  truth.  And 
we  could  get  no  flour. 

When  the  bakery  was  just  about  to  do  better, 
the  Conde  de  Romanones,  who  was  our  landlord 
in  those  days,  notified  us  that  the  building  was 
to  be  torn  down. 

Then  our  troubles  began.  We  were  obliged 
to  move  elsewhere,  and  to  undertake  alterations, 
for  which  money  was  indispensable,  but  we  had 
no  money.  In  that  predicament,  we  began  to 
speculate  upon  the  Exchange,  and  the  Exchange 
proved  a  kind  mother  to  us;  it  sustained  us 
until  we  were  on  our  feet  again.  As  soon  as  we 
had  established  ourselves  upon  another  site,  we 
proceeded  to  lose  money,  so  we  withdrew. 

It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  I  have 
always  regarded  the  Stock  Exchange  as  a  phi- 
lanthropic institution,  or  that,  on  the  other  hand, 
a  church  has  always  seemed  a  sombre  place 
in  which  a  black  priest  leaps  forth  from  behind 
a  confessional  to  seize  one  by  the  throat  in  the 
dark,  and  to  throttle  him. 


—  174  — 


AS  A  BAKER 


MY  FATHER'S  DISILLUSIONMENT 

My  father  was  endowed  with  a  due  share  of 
the  romantic  fervour  which  distinguished  men 
of  his  epoch,  and  set  great  store  by  friendship. 
More  particularly,  he  was  wrapped  up  in  his 
friends  in  San  Sebastian. 

When  we  discovered  that  we  were  in  trouble, 
before  throwing  ourselves  into  the  loving  arms 
of  the  Bourse,  my  father  spoke  to  two  intimate 
friends  of  his  who  were  from  San  Sebastian. 
They  made  an  appointment  to  meet  me  in  the 
Cafe  Suizo.  I  explained  the  situation  to  them, 
after  which  they  made  me  certain  propositions, 
which  were  so  usurious,  so  outrageously  extor- 
tionate, that  they  took  my  breath  away.  They 
offered  to  advance  us  the  money  we  needed  for 
fifty  per  cent  of  the  gross  receipts,  while  we 
were  to  meet  the  running  expenses  out  of  our 
fifty  per  cent,  receiving  no  compensation  what- 
ever for  our  services  in  taking  care  of  the  busi- 
ness. 

I  was  astonished,  and  naturally  did  not  ac- 
cept. The  episode  was  a  great  blow  to  my 
father.  I  frequently  came  face  to  face  with 
one  of  our  friends  at  a  later  date,  but  I  never 
—  175  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


bowed  to  him.  He  was  offended.  I  was 
tempted  to  'approach  him  and  say:  "The  reason 
that  I  do  not  bow  to  you  is  because  I  know  you 
are  a  rascal." 

If  either  of  these  friends  of  ours  were  alive,  I 
should  proceed  to  mention  their  names,  but,  as 
they  are  dead,  it  will  serve  no  useful  purpose. 

INDUSTRY  AND  DEMOCRACY 

The  bakery  has  been  brandished  against  me 
in  literature. 

When  I  first  wrote,  it  was  said: 

"This  Baroja  is  a  crusty  fellow;  naturally,  he 
is  a  baker." 

A  certain  picturesque  academician,  who  was 
also  a  dramatist,  and  given  to  composing  stu- 
pendous quintillas  and  cuartetas  in  his  day, 
which,  despite  their  flatness,  were  received  with 
applause,  had  the  inspiration  to  add: 

"All  this  modernism  has  been  cooked  up  in 
Baroja's  oven." 

Even  the  Catalans  lost  no  time  in  throwing 
the  fact  of  my  being  a  baker  in  my  face,  al- 
though they  are  a  commercial,  manufacturing 
people.  Whether  calico  is  nobler  than  flour,  or 
—  176  — 


^5  A  BAKER 

flour  than  calico,  I  am  not  sure,  but  the  subject 
is  one  for  discussion,  as  Maeztu  would  have  it. 

I  am  an  eclectic  myself  on  this  score.  I  pre- 
fer flour  in  the  shape  of  bread  with  my  dinner, 
but  cloth  will  go  further  with  a  man  who  desires 
to  appear  well  in  public. 

When  I  was  serving  upon  the  Town  Council, 
an  anonymous  publication  entitled  "Masks  Off," 
printed  the  following  among  other  gems: 
"Pio  Baroja  is  a  man  of  letters  who  runs  a 
bake-shop." 

A  Madrid  critic  recently  declared  in  an 
American  periodical  that  I  had  two  personalities: 
one  that  of  a  writer  and  the  other  of  a  baker. 
He  was  solicitous  to  let  me  know  later  that  he 
intended  no  harm. 

But  if  I  should  say  to  him:  "Mr.  So  and  So" 
is  a  writer  who  is  excellently  posted  upon  the 
value  of  cloth,  as  his  father  sold  dry-goods,  it 
would  appeal  to  his  mind  as  bad  taste. 

Another  journalist  paid  his  respects  to  me 
some  months  ago  in  El  Parlamentario,  saying  I 
'baked  rolls,  oppressed  the  people,  and  sucked 
the  blood  of  the  workingman. 

It  would  appear  to  be  more  demeaning  to 
own  a  small  factory  or  a  shop,  according  to  the 
—  177  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


standards  of  both  literary  and  non-literary  cir- 
cles, than  it  is  to  accept  money  from  the  cor- 
ruption funds  of  the  Government,  or  bounties 
from  the  exchequers  of  foreign  Embassies. 

When  I  hear  talk  nowadays  about  the  dues 
of  the  common  people,  my  propensity  to  laugh 
is  so  great  that  I  am  apprehensive  that  my  end 
may  be  like  that  of  the  Greek  philosopher  in 
Diogenes  Laertius,  who  died  of  laughter  because 
he  saw  an  ass  eating  figs. 

THE  VEXATIONS  OF  A  SMALL  TRADESMAN 

The  trials  and  tribulations  of  the  literary  life, 
its  feuds  and  its  backbitings  are  a  common  topic 
of  conversation.  However,  I  have  never  expe- 
rienced anything  of  the  kind  in  literature.  The 
trouble  with  literature  is  that  there  is  very  little 
money  in  it,  which  renders  the  writer's  existence 
both  mean  and  precarious. 

Nothing  compares  for  vexation  with  the  life 
of  the  petty  tradesman,  especially  when  that 
tradesman  is  a  baker.  Upon  occasion,  I  have 
repeated  to  my  friends  the  series  of  outrages 
to  which  we  were  obliged  to  submit,  in  particu- 
lar at  the  hands  of  the  municipal  authorities. 
—  178  — 


AS  A  BAKER 


Sometimes  it  was  through  malice,  but  more  often 
through  sheer  insentient  imbecility. 

When  my  brother  and  I  moved  to  the  new 
site,  we  drew  up  a  plan  and  submitted  it  to  the 
Ayuntamiento,  or  City  Government.  A  clerk 
discovered  that  no  provision  had  been  made  for 
a  stall  for  a  mule  to  run  the  kneading  machine, 
and  so  rejected  it.  When  we  learned  that  our 
application  had  not  been  granted,  we  inquired 
the  reason  and  explained  to  the  clerk  that  no 
provision  had  been  made  for  the  mule  because 
we  had  no  mule,  as  our  kneading  machine  was 
operated  by  an  electric  motor. 

"That  makes  no  difference,  no  difference 
whatever,"  replied  the  clerk  with  the  importance 
and  obtuseness  of  the  bureaucrat.  "The  ordi- 
nance requires  that  there  be  a  stall  for  one." 

Another  of  the  thousand  instances  of  official 
barbarity  was  perpetrated  at  our  expense  while 
Sanchez  de  Toca  was  Alcalde.  This  gentleman 
is  a  Siamese  twin  of  Maura's  when  it  comes  to 
garrulousness  and  muddy  thinking,  and  he  had 
resolved  to  do  away  with  the  distribution  of 
bread  by  public  delivery,  and  to  license  only 
deliveries  by  private  bakeries.  The  order  was 
arbitrary  enough,  but  the  manner  in  which  it 
—  179  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


was  put  into  effect  was  a  masterpiece.  It  was 
reported  that  plates  bearing  license  numbers 
would  be  given  out  at  the  Ayuntamiento  to  the 
delivery  men  from  the  bakeries.  So  we  re- 
paired to  the  Ayuntamiento  and  questioned  a 
clerk : 

"Where  do  they  give  out  the  numbers? 

"There  are  no  numbers." 

"What  will  happen  tomorrow  then,  when  we 
make  our  deliveries?" 

"How  do  I  know?" 

The  next  day  when  the  delivery  men  began 
their  rounds,  a  policeman  accosted  them : 

"Have  you  your  numbers?" 

"No,  sir;  they  are  not  ready  yet." 

"Well,  come  with  me  then,  to  the  police  sta- 
tion." 

And  that  was  the  last  of  our  bread. 

The  Caid  of  Mechuar  in  Morocco  favoured 
his  subjects  in  some  such  fashion  several  years 
since,  but  the  Moors,  being  men  of  spirit,  fell  on 
him  one  day,  and  left  him  at  death's  door  on  a 
dung  heap.  Meanwhile,  Sanchez  de  Toca  con- 
tinues to  talk  nonsense  in  these  parts,  and  is 
considered  by  some  to  be  one  of  the  bulwarks 
of  the  country. 

—  180  — 


AS  A  BAKER 


I  could  spin  many  a  tale  of  tyranny  in  high 
places,  and  almost  as  many,  no  doubt,  of  the 
pettinesses  of  workingmen.  But  what  is  the 
good?  Why  stir  up  my  bile?  In  progressive 
incarnations,  I  have  now  passed  through  those  of 
baker  and  petty  tradesman.  I  am  no  longer 
an  employer  who  exploits  the  workingman,  nor 
can  I  see  that  I  ever  did  so.  If  I  have  exploited 
workers  merely  because  I  employed  them,  all 
that  was  some  time  ago.  I  support  myself  by 
my  writings  now,  although  it  is  quite  proper  to 
state  that  I  live  on  very  little. 


—  181- 


XII 
AS  A  WRITER 

My  pre-literary  career  was  three-fold :  I  was 
a  student  for  eight  years,  during  two  a  village 
doctor,  and  for  six  more  a  baker. 

These  having  elapsed,  being  already  close 
upon  thirty,  I  began  to  write. 

My  new  course  was  a  wise  one.  It  was  the 
best  thing  that  I  could  have  done;  anything  else 
would  have  annoyed  me  more  and  have  pleased 
me  less.  I  have  enjoyed  writing,  and  I  have 
made  some  money,  although  not  much,  yet  it 
has  been  sufficient  to  enable  me  to  travel,  which 
otherwise  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  do. 

The  first  considerable  sum  which  I  received 
was  upon  the  publication  of  my  novel  The 
Mayorazgo  of  Labraz.  Henrich  of  Barcelona 
paid  me  two  thousand  pesetas  for  it.  T  in- 
vested the  two  thousand  pesetas  in  a  specula- 
tion upon  the  Bourse,  and  they  disappeared  in 
two  weeks. 

The  money  which  I  have  received  for  my 
other  books,  I  have  employed  to  better  purpose. 
—  182  — 


AS  A  WRITER 


BOHEMIA 

I  have  never  been  a  believer  in  the  absurd 
myth  called  Bohemia.  The  idea  of  living  gaily 
and  irresponsibly  in  Madrid,  or  in  any  other 
Spanish  city,  without  taking  thought  for  the  mor- 
row, is  so  preposterous  that  it  passes  comprehen- 
sion. Bohemia  is  utterly  false  in  Paris  and 
London,  but  in  Spain,  where  life  is  difficult,  it  is 
even  more  of  a  cheat. 

Bohemia  is  not  only  false,  it  is  contemptible. 
It  suggests  to  me  a  minor  Christian  sect,  of  the 
most  inconsequential  degree,  nicely  calculated 
for  the  convenience  of  hangers  on  at  cafes. 

Henri  Murger  was  the  son  of  the  wife  of  a 
concierge. 

Of  course,  this  would  not  have  mattered  had 
his  outlook  upon  life  not  been  that  of  the  son  of 
the  wife  of  a  concierge. 

OUR  OWN  GENERATION 

The  beginner  in  letters  makes  his  way  up,  as  a 
rule,  amid  a  literary  environment  which  is  dis- 
tinguished by  reputations  and  hierarchies,  all  re- 
spected by  him.     But  this  was  not  the  case  with 
—  183  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


the  young  writers  of  my  day.  During  the  years 
1898  to  1900,  a  number  of  young  men  suddenly 
found  themselves  thrown  together  in  Madrid, 
whose  only  rule  was  the  principle  that  the  imme- 
diate past  did  not  exist  for  them. 

This  aggregation  of  authors  and  artists  might 
have  seemed  to  have  been  brought  together  un- 
der some  leadership,  and  to  have  been  directed 
to  some  purpose;  yet  one  who  entertained  such 
an  assumption  would  have  been  mistaken. 

Chance  brought  us  together  for  a  moment,  a 
very  brief  moment,  to  be  followed  by  a  general 
dispersal.  There  were  days  when  thirty  or  forty 
young  men,  apprentices  in  the  art  of  writing, 
sat  around  the  tables  in  the  old  Cafe  de  Madrid. 

Doubtless  such  gatherings  of  new  men,  eager 
to  interfere  in  and  to  influence  the  operations  of 
the  social  system,  yet  without  either  the  warrant 
of  tradition  or  any  proved  ability  to  do  so,  are 
common  upon  a  larger  scale  in  all  revolutions. 

As  we  neither  had,  nor  could  have  had,  in 
the  nature  of  the  case,  a  task  to  perform,  we 
soon  found  that  we  were  divided  into  small 
groups,  and  finally  broke  up  altogether. 


—  184  — 


AS  A  WRITER 


AZORIN 

A  few  days  after  the  publication  of  my  first 
book,  Sombre  Lives,  Miguel  Poveda,  who  was 
responsible  for  printing  it,  sent  a  copy  to  Mar- 
tinez Ruiz,  who  was  at  that  time  in  Monovar. 
Martinez  Ruiz  wrote  me  a  long  letter  concerning 
the  book  by  return  mail;  on  the  following  day 
he  sent  another. 

Poveda  handed  me  the  letters  to  read  and  I 
was  filled  with  surprise  and  joy.  Some  weeks 
later,  returning  from  the  National  Library,  Mar- 
tinez Ruiz,  whom  I  knew  by  sight,  came  up  to 
me  on  the  Recoletos. 

"Are  you  Baroja?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"I  am  Martinez  Ruiz." 

We  shook  hands  and  became  friends. 

In  those  day  we  travelled  about  the  country 
together,  we  contributed  to  the  same  papers,  and 
the  ideas  and  the  men  we  attacked  were  the 
same. 

Later,  Azorin  became  an  enthusiastic  partisan 
of  Maura,  which  appeared  to  me  particularly  ab- 
surd, as  I  have  never  been  able  to  see  anything 
but  an  actor  of  the  grand  style  in  Maura,  a  man 
—  185  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


of  small  ideas.  Next  he  became  a  partisan 
of  La  Cierva,  which  was  as  bad  in  my  opinion 
as  being  a  Maurista.  I  am  unable  to  say  at  the 
moment  whether  he  is  contemplating  any  fur- 
ther transformations. 

But,  whether  he  is  or  not,  Azorin  will  always 
remain  a  master  of  language  to  me,  besides  an 
excellent  friend  who  has  a  weakness  for  believ- 
ing all  men  to  be  great  who  talk  in  a  loud  voice 
and  who  pull  their  cuffs  down  out  of  their  coat 
sleeves  with  a  grand  gesture  whenever  they  ap- 
pear upon  the  platform. 

PAUL  SCHMITZ 

Another  friendship  which  I  found  stimulating 
was  that  of  Paul  Schmitz,  a  Swiss  from  Basle, 
who  had  come  to  Madrid  because  of  some  weak- 
ness of  the  lungs,  spending  three  years  among 
us  in  order  to  rehabilitate  himself.  Schmitz 
had  studied  in  Switzerland  and  in  Germany,  and 
also  had  lived  for  a  long  time  in  the  north  of 
Russia. 

He  was  familiar  with  what  in  my  judgment 
are  the  two  most  interesting  countries  of  Europe. 

Paul  Schmitz  was  a  timid  person  of  an  in- 
—  186  — 


AS  A  WRITER 


quiring  turn  of  mind,  whose  youth  had  been 
tempestuous.  I  made  a  number  of  excursions 
with  Schmitz  to  Toledo,  to  El  Paular  and  to  the 
Springs  of  Urbion;  a  year  or  two  later  we  visited 
Switzerland  several  times  together. 

Schmitz  was  like  an  open  window  through 
which  I  looked  out  upon  an  unknown  world.  I 
held  long  conversations  with  him  upon  life, 
literature,  art  and  philosophy. 

I  recall  that  I  took  him  one  Sunday  afternoon 
to  the  home  of  Don  Juan  Valera. 

When  Schmitz  and  I  arrived,  Valera  had  just 
settled  down  for  the  afternoon  to  listen  to  his 
daughter,  who  was  reading  aloud  one  of  the 
latest  novels  of  Zola. 

Valera,  Schmitz  and  I  sat  chatting  for  per- 
haps four  or  five  hours.  There  was  no  sub- 
ject that  we  could  all  agree  upon.  Valera  and 
I  were  no  sooner  against  the  Swiss  than  the 
Swiss  and  Valera  were  against  me,  or  the  Swiss 
and  I  against  Valera,  and  then  each  flew  off  after 
his  own  opinion. 

Valera,  who  saw  that  the  Swiss  and  I  were 
anarchists,  said  it  was  beyond  his  comprehen- 
sion how  any  man  could  conceive  of  a  state  of 
general  well  being. 

—  187  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  believe,"  he 
said  to  me,  "that  there  will  ever  come  a  time 
when  every  man  will  be  able  to  set  a  bowl  of 
oysters  from  Arcachon  upon  his  table  and  top 
it  off  with  a  bottle  of  champagne  of  first-rate 
vintage,  besides  having  a  woman  sitting  beside 
him  in  a  Worth  gown?" 

"No,  no,  Don  Juan,"  I  replied.  "In  the  eyes 
of  the  anarchist,  oysters,  champagne,  and  Worth 
are  mere  superstitions,  myths  to  which  we  at- 
tach no  importance.  We  do  not  spend  our  time 
dreaming  about  oysters,  while  champagne  is  not 
nectar  to  our  tastes.  All  that  we  ask  is  to  live 
well,  and  to  have  those  about  us  live  well 
also." 

We  could  not  convince  each  other.  When 
Schmitz  and  I  left  Valera's  house  it  was  al- 
ready night,  and  we  found  ourselves  absorbed  in 
his  talents  and  his  limitations. 

ORTEGA  Y  GASSET 

Ortega  y  Gasset  impresses  me  as  a  traveller 
who  has  journeyed  through  the  world  of  culture. 
He  moves  upon  a  higher  level,  which  it  is  diffi- 
—  188  — 


AS  A  WRITER 


cult  to  reach,  and  upon  which  it  is  still  more 
difficult  to  maintain  oneself. 

It  may  be  that  Ortega  has  no  great  sympathy 
for  my  manner  of  living,  which  is  insubordinate ; 
it  may  be  that  I  look  with  unfriendly  eye  upon 
his  ambitious  and  aristocratic  sympathies ;  never- 
theless, he  is  a  master  who  brings  glad  news  of 
the  unknown — that  is,  of  the  unknown  to  us. 

Doctor  San  Martin  was  fond  of  telling  how 
he  was  sitting  one  day  upon  a  bench  in  the  Re- 
tiro,  reading. 

"Are  you  reading  a  novel?"  inquired  a  gentle- 
man, sitting  down  beside  him. 

"No,  I  am  studying." 

"What!  Studying  at  your  age?"  exclaimed 
the  gentleman,  amazed. 

The  same  remark  might  be  made  to  me: 
"What!  Sitting  under  a  master  at  your  age?" 

As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  every  man  who 
knows  more  than  I  do  is  my  master. 

I  know  very  well  that  philosophy  and  meta- 
physics are  nothing  to  the  great  mass  of  physi- 
cians who  pick  up  their  science  out  of  foreign 
reviews,  adding  nothing  themselves  to  what  they 
read ;  nor,  for  that  matter,  are  they  to  most  Span- 
—  189  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


ish  engineers,  who  are  skilled  in  doing  suffi- 
ciently badly  today  what  was  done  in  England 
and  Germany  very  well  thirty  years  ago;  and 
the  same  thing  is  true  of  the  apothecaries.  The 
practical  is  all  that  these  people  concede  to  ex- 
ist, but  how  do  they  know  what  is  practical? 
Considering  the  matter  from  the  practical  point 
of  view,  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  civiliza- 
tion has  attained  a  high  development  wherever 
there  have  been  great  metaphysicisms,  and  then 
with  the  philosophers  have  come  the  inventors, 
who  between  them  are  the  glory  of  mankind. 
Unamuno  despises  inventors,  but  in  this  case 
it  is  his  misfortune.  It  is  far  easier  for  a  na- 
tion which  is  destitute  of  a  tradition  of  culture 
to  improvise  an  histologist  or  a  physicist,  than 
a  philosopher  or  a  real  thinker. 

Ortega  y  Gasset,  the  only  approach  to  a  phi- 
losopher whom  I  have  ever  known,  is  one  of 
the  few  Spaniards  whom  it  is  interesting  to 
hear  talk. 

A  PSEUDO-PATRON 

Although  a  man  may  never  have  amounted  to 
anything,  and  will  probably  continue  in  much 
—  190  — 


AS  A  WRITER 


the  same  case,  that  is  to  say  never  amounting  to 
anything,  yet  there  are  persons  who  will  take 
pride  in  having  given  him  his  start  in  the  world 
—in  short,  upon  having  made  him  known. 
Senor  Ruiz  Contreras  has  set  up  some  such  ab- 
surd claim  in  regard  to  me.  According  to  Ruiz 
Contreras,  he  brought  me  into  public  notice 
through  a  review  which  he  published  in  1899, 
under  the  title  Revista  Nueva.  Thus,  accord- 
ing to  Ruiz  Contreras,  I  am  known,  and  have 
been  for  eighteen  years!  Although  it  may  seem 
scarcely  worth  while  to  expose  such  an  obvious 
joke,  I  should  like  to  clear  up  this  question  for 
the  benefit  of  any  future  biographers.  Why 
should  I  not  indulge  the  hope  of  having  them? 

In  1899,  Ruiz  Contreras  invited  my  co-opera- 
tion in  a  weekly  magazine,  in  which  I  was  to  be 
both  stockholder  and  editor.  Those  days  al- 
ready seem  a  long  way  off.  At  first  I  refused, 
but  he  insisted ;  at  length  we  agreed  that  I  should 
write  for  the  magazine  and  share  in  meeting  the 
expenses,  in  company  with  Ruiz  Contreras,  Re- 
paraz,  Lassalle  and  the  novelist  Matheu. 

I  made  two  or  three  payments,  and  moved 
down  some  of  my  pictures  and  furniture  to  the 
office  in  consequence,  until  the  time  came  when 
—  191  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


I  began  to  feel  that  it  was  humorous  for  me  to 
be  paying  for  publishing  my  articles,  when  I  was 
perfectly  well  able  to  dispose  of  them  to  any 
other  sheet.  Upon  my  cutting  off  payments, 
Ruiz  Contreras  informed  me  that  a  number  of 
the  stockholders,  among  whom  was  Icaza,  who 
had  replaced  Reparaz,  took  the  position  that  if 
I  did  not  pay,  I  should  not  be  permitted  to  write 
for  the  magazine. 

"Very  well,  I  shall  not  write."  And  I  ceased 
to  write. 

Previous  to  my  connection  with  the  Revista 
Nueva,  I  had  contributed  articles  to  El  Lib- 
eral, El  Pais,  El  Globo,  La  Justicia,  and  La 
Voz  de  Guipuzcoa,  as  well  as  to  other  publica- 
tions. 

A  year  after  my  contributions  to  the  Revista 
Nueva,  I  brought  out  Sombre  Lives,  which 
scarcely  sold  one  hundred  copies,  and,  then,  a 
little  later,  The  House  of  Aizgorri,  the  sale  of 
which  fell  short  of  fifty. 

At  this  time,  Martinez  Ruiz  published  a  com- 
edy, The  Power  of  Love,  for  which  I  provided 
a  prologue,  and  I  went  about  with  the  publisher, 
Rodriguez  Serra,  through  the  bookshops,  ped- 
dling the  book.  In  a  shop  on  the  Plaza  de  Santa 
—  192  — 


AS  A  WRITER 


Ana,  Rodriguez  Serra  asked  the  proprietor,  not 
altogether  without  a  touch  of  malice: 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  book?" 

"It  would  be  all  right,"  answered  the  pro- 
prietor, who  did  not  know  me,  "if  anybody  knew 
who  Martinez  Ruiz  was;  and  who  is  this  Pio 
Baroja?" 

Senor  Ruiz  Contreras  says  that  he  made  me 
known,  but  the  fact  is  that  nobody  knew  me  in 
those  days;  Senor  Ruiz  Contreras  flatters  himself 
that  he  did  me  a  great  favour  by  publishing  my 
articles,  at  a  cost  to  me,  at  the  very  least,  of 
two  or  three  duros  apiece. 

If  this  is  to  be  a  patron  of  letters,  I  should  like 
to  patronize  half  the  planet. 

As  for  literary  influence,  Ruiz  Contreras  never 
had  any  upon  me.  He  was  an  admirer  of  Ar- 
sene  Houssage,  Paul  Bourget,  and  other  novel- 
ists with  a  sophisticated  air,  who  never  meant 
anything  to  me.  The  theatre  also  obsessed  him, 
a  malady  which  I  have  never  suffered,  and  he 
was  a  devotee  of  the  poet,  Zorrilla,  in  which  re- 
spect I  was  unable  to  share  his  enthusiasm,  nor 
can  I  do  so  today.  Finally,  he  was  a  politi- 
cal reactionary,  while  I  am  a  man  of  radical 
tendencies. 

—  193  — 


XIII 
PARISIAN  DAYS 

For  the  past  twenty  years  I  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  visiting  Paris,  not  for  the  purpose  of 
becoming  acquainted  with  the  city — to  see  it 
once  is  enough;  nor  do  I  go  in  order  to  meet 
French  authors,  as,  for  the  most  part,  they  con- 
sider themselves  so  immeasurably  above  Span- 
iards that  there  is  no  way  in  which  a  self-re- 
specting person  can  approach  them.  I  go  to 
meet  the  members  of  the  Spanish  colony,  which 
includes  some  types  which  are  most  interesting. 

I  have  gathered  a  large  number  of  stories  and 
anecdotes  in  this  way,  some  of  which  I  have  in- 
corporated in  my  books. 

ESTEVANEZ 

Don  Nicolas  Estevanez  was  a  good  friend  of 
mine.  During  my  sojourns  in  Paris,  I  met  him 
every  afternoon  in  the  Cafe  de  la  Fleur  in  the 
Boulevard  St.  Germain. 

—  194  — 


PARISIAN  DAYS 


When  I  was  writing  The  Last  of  the  Roman- 
tics and  Grotesque  Tragedies,  Estevanez  fur- 
nished me  with  data  and  information  concerning 
life  in  Paris  under  the  Second  Empire. 

When  I  last  saw  him  in  the  autumn  of  1913, 
he  made  a  practice  of  coming  to  the  cafe  with 
a  paper  scribbled  over  with  notes,  to  assist  his 
memory  to  recall  the  anecdotes  which  he  had  it  in 
mind  to  tell. 

I  can  see  him  now  in  the  Cafe  de  la  Fleur, 
with  his  blue  eyes,  his  long  white  beard,  his 
cheeks,  which  were  still  rosy,  his  calm  and  al- 
ways phlegmatic  air. 

Once  he  became  much  excited.  Javier  Bueno 
and  I  happened  on  him  in  a  cafe  on  the  Avenue 
d'Orleans,  not  far  from  the  Lion  de  Belfort. 
Bueno  asked  some  questions  about  the  recent 
attempt  by  Moral  to  assassinate  the  King  in 
Madrid,  and  Estevanez  suddenly  went  to  pieces. 
An  anarchist  told  me  afterwards  that  Estevanez 
had  carried  the  bomb  which  was  thrown  by  Mor- 
ral  in  Madrid,  from  Paris  to  Barcelona,  at  which 
port  he  had  taken  ship  for  Cuba,  by  arrange- 
ment with  the  Duke  of  Bivona. 

I  believe  this  story  to  have  been  a  pure  fabri- 
cation, but  I  feel  perfectly  certain  that  Estevanez 
—  195  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


knew  beforehand  that  the  crime  was  to  be  at- 
temped. 

MY  VERSATILITY  ACCORDING  TO  BONAFOUX 

Speaking  of  Estevanez,  I  recall  also  Bonaf  oux, 
whom  I  saw  frequently.  According  to  Gonzalez 
de  la  Pena,  the  painter,  he  held  my  versatility 
against  me. 

"Bonafoux,"  remarked  Pefia,  "feels  that  you 
are  too  versatile  and  too  volatile." 

"Indeed?     In  what  way?" 

"One  day  you  entered  the  bar  and  said  to 
Bonafoux  that  a  testimonial  banquet  ought  to 
be  organized  for  Estevanez,  enlarging  upon 
it  enthusiastically.  Bonafoux  answered:  'Go 
ahead  and  make  the  preparations,  and  we  will 
all  get  together.'  When  you  came  into  the  cafe 
a  few  nights  later,  Bonafoux  asked:  'How 
about  that  banquet?'  'What  banquet?'  you  re- 
plied. It  had  already  passed  out  of  your  mind. 
Now,  tell  me:  Is  this  true?"  inquired  Pena. 

"Yes,  it  is.  We  all  have  something  of  Tar- 
tarin  in  us,  more  or  less.  We  talk  and  we  talk, 
and  then  we  forget  what  we  say." 

Other  Parisian  types  return  to  me  when  I  think 
—  196  — 


PARISIAN  DAYS 


of  those  days.  There  was  a  Cuban  journalist, 
who  was  satisfactorily  dirty,  of  whom  Bonafoux 
used  to  say  that  he  not  only  ate  his  plate  of  soup 
but  managed  to  wash  his  face  in  it  at  the  same 
time.  There  was  a  Catalan  guitar  player,  be- 
sides some  girls  from  Madrid  who  walked  the 
tight  rope,  whom  we  used  to  invite  to  join  us 
at  the  cafe  from  time  to  time.  And  then  there 
was  a  whole  host  of  other  persons,  all  more  or 
less  shabby,  down  at  the  heel  and  picturesque. 


—  197 


XIV 
LITERARY  ENMITIES 

Making  our  entrance  into  the  world  of  letters 
hurling  contradictions  right  and  left,  the  young 
men  of  our  generation  were  received  by  the  writ- 
ers of  established  reputation  with  unfriendly 
demonstrations.  As  was  natural,  this  was  not 
only  the  attitude  of  the  older  writers,  but  it  ex- 
tended to  our  contemporaries  in  years  as  well, 
even  to  those  who  were  most  modern. 

THE  ENMITY  OF  DICENTA 

Among  those  who  cherished  a  deadly  hatred 
of  me  was  Dicenta.  It  was  an  antipathy  which 
had  its  origin  in  the  realm  of  ideas,  and  it  was 
accentuated  subsequently  by  an  article  which  I 
contributed  to  El  Globo  upon  his  drama 
Aurora,  in  which  I  maintained  that  Dicenta 
was  not  a  man  of  new  or  broad  ideas,  but  com- 
pletely preoccupied  with  the  ancient  conceptions 
of  honesty  and  honour.  One  night  in  the  Cafe 
—  198  — 


LITERARY  ENMITIES 


Fornos — I  am  able  to  vouch  for  the  truth  of  this 
incident  because,  years  afterwards,  he  told  me 
the  story  himself — Dicenta  accosted  a  young  man 
who  was  sitting  at  an  adjacent  table  taking  sup- 
per, and  attempted  to  draw  him  into  discus- 
sion, under  the  impression  that  it  was  I.  The 
young  man  was  so  frightened  that  he  never  dared 
to  open  his  mouth. 

"Come,"  shouted  Dicenta,  "we  shall  settle  this 
matter  at  once." 

"I  have  nothing  to  settle  with  you,"  replied 
the  young  man. 

"Yes,  sir,  you  have;  you  have  stated  in  an 
article  that  my  ideas  are  not  revolutionary." 

"I  never  stated  anything  of  the  kind." 

"What  is  that?" 

"No,  sir." 

"But  aren't  you  Pio  Baroja?" 

"I  am  not,  sir." 

Dicenta  turned  on  his  heel  and  marched  back 
to  his  seat. 

Sometime  later,  Dicenta  and  I  became  friends, 
although  we  were  never  very  intimate,  because 
he  felt  that  I  did  not  appreciate  him  at  his  full 
worth.  And  it  was  the  truth. 

—  199  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


THE  POSTHUMOUS  ENMITY  OF  SAWA 

I  met  Alejandro  Sawa  one  evening  at  the  Cafe 
Fornos,  where  I  had  gone  with  a  friend. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  never  read  anything 
which  he  had  written,  but  his  appearance  im- 
pressed me.  Once  I  followed  him  in  the  street 
with  the  intention  of  speaking  to  him,  but  my 
courage  failed  at  the  last  moment.  A  number 
of  months  later,  I  met  him  one  summer  after- 
noon on  the  Recoletos,  when  he  was  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  Frenchman  named  Cornuty.  Cor- 
nuty  and  Sawa  were  conversing  and  reciting 
verses;  they  took  me  to  a  wine-shop  in  the  Plaza 
de  Herradores,  where  they  drank  a  number  of 
glasses,  which  I  paid  for,  whereupon  Sawa 
asked  me  to  lend  him  three  pesetas.  I  did  not 
have  them,  and  told  him  so. 

"Do  you  live  far  from  here?"  asked  Ale- 
jandro, in  his  lofty  style. 

"No,  near  by." 

"Very  well  then,  you  can  go  home  and  bring 
me  the  money." 

He  issued  this  command  with  such  an  air  of 
authority  that  I  went  home  and  brought  him  the 
—  200  — 


LITERARY  ENMITIES 


money.  He  came  to  the  door  of  the  wine-shop, 
took  it  from  me,  and  then  said: 

"You  may  go  now." 

This  was  the  way  in  which  insignificant  bour- 
geois admirers  were  treated  in  the  school  of 
Baudelaire  and  Verlaine. 

Later  again,  when  I  brought  out  Sombre 
Lives,  I  sometimes  saw  Sawa  in  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning,  his  long  locks  flowing,  and  fol- 
lowed by  his  dog.  He  always  gripped  my  hand 
with  such  force  that  it  did  me  some  hurt,  and 
then  he  would  say  to  me,  in  a  tragic  tone: 

"Be  proud!  You  have  written  Sombre 
Lives." 

I  took  it  as  a  joke. 

One  day  Alejandro  wrote  me  to  come  to  his 
house.  He  was  living  on  the  Cuesta  de  Santo 
Domingo.  I  betook  myself  there,  and  he  made 
me  a  proposition  which  was  obviously  prepos- 
terous. He  handed  me  five  or  six  articles,  writ- 
ten by  him,  which  had  already  been  published, 
together  with  some  notes,  saying  that  if  I  would 
add  certain  material,  we  should  then  be  able  to 
make  up  a  book  of  "Parisian  Impressions," 
which  could  appear  under  the  names  of  us  both. 

—  201  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


I  read  the  articles  and  did  not  care  for  them. 
When  I  went  to  return  them,  he  asked  me: 

"What  have  you  done?" 

"Nothing.  I  think  it  would  be  difficult  for 
us  to  collaborate;  there  is  no  possible  bond  of 
unity  in  what  we  write." 

"How  is  that?" 

"You  are  one  of  these  eloquent  writers,  and  I 
am  not." 

This  remark  gave  great  offence. 

Another  reason  for  Alejandro's  enmity  was 
an  opinion  expressed  by  my  brother,  Ricardo. 

Ricardo  wished  to  paint  the  portrait  of  Man- 
uel Sawa  in  oils,  as  Manuel  had  marked  person- 
ality at  that  time,  when  he  still  wore  a  beard. 

"But  here  am  I,"  said  Alejandro.  "Am  I 
not  a  more  interesting  subject  to  be  painted?" 

"No,  no,  not  at  all,"  we  all  shouted  together 
— this  took  place  in  the  Cafe  de  Lisboa — "Man- 
uel has  more  character." 

Alejandro  said  nothing,  but,  a  few  moments 
later,  he  rose,  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass, 
arranged  his  flowing  locks,  and  then,  glaring  at 
us  from  top  to  toe,  while  he  pronounced  the 
letter  with  the  utmost  distinctness,  he  said  sim- 
ply: 

—  202  — 


LITERARY  ENMITIES 


"M  .  .  ."  and  walked  out  of  the  cafe. 

Some  time  passed  before  Alejandro  heard  that 
I  had  put  him  into  one  of  my  novels  and  he  con- 
ceived a  certain  dislike  for  me,  in  spite  of  which 
we  saw  each  other  now  and  then,  always  con- 
versing affectionately. 

One  day  he  sent  for  me  to  come  and  see  him. 
He  was  living  in  the  Calle  del  Conde  Duque. 
He  was  in  bed,  already  blind.  His  spirit  was 
as  high  as  before,  while  his  interest  in  literary 
matters  remained  the  same.  His  brother, 
Miguel,  who  was  present,  happened  to  say  dur- 
ing the  conversation  that  the  hat  I  wore,  which  I 
had  purchased  in  Paris  a  few  days  previously, 
had  a  flatter  brim  than  was  usual.  Alejandro 
asked  to  examine  it,  and  busied  himself  feeling 
of  the  brim. 

"This  is  a  hat,"  he  exclaimed  enthusiastically, 
"that  a  man  can  wear  with  long  hair."  Some 
months  subsequent  to  his  death  a  book  of  his, 
Light  Among  the  Shadows,  was  published,  in 
which  Alejandro  spoke  ill  of  me,  although  he  had 
a  good  word  for  Sombre  Lives. 

He  called  me  a  country-man,  said  that  my 
bones  were  misshapen,  and  then  stated  that  glory 
does  not  go  hand  in  hand  with  tuberculosis. 
—  203  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


Poor  Alejandro!  He  was  sound  at  heart,  an 
eloquent  child  of  the  Mediterranean,  born  to 
orate  in  the  lands  of  the  sun,  but  he  took  it  into 
his  head  that  it  was  his  duty  to  make  himself 
over  into  the  likeness  of  one  of  the  putrid  prod- 
ucts of  the  North. 

SEMI-HATRED  ON  THE  PART  OF  SILVERIO  LANZA 

A  mutual  friend,  Antonio  Gil  Campos,  intro- 
duced me  to  Silverio  Lanza. 

Silverio  Lanza  was  a  man  of  great  originality, 
endowed  with  an  enormous  fund  of  thwarted 
ambition  and  pride,  which  was  only  natural,  as 
he  was  a  notably  fine  writer  who  had  not  yet 
met  with  success,  nor  even  with  the  recognition 
which  other  younger  writers  enjoyed. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  Lanza,  I  remember 
how  his  eyes  sparkled  when  I  told  him  that  I 
liked  his  books.  Nobody  ever  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  him  in  those  days. 

Silverio  Lanza  was  a  singular  character.  At 
times  he  seemed  benevolent,  and  then  again  there 
were  times  when  he  would  appear  malignant  in 
the  extreme. 

His  ideas  upon  the  subject  of  literature  were 
—  204  — 


LITERARY  ENMITIES 


positively  absurd.  When  I  sent  him  Sombre 
Lives,  he  wrote  me  an  unending  letter  in  which 
he  attempted  to  convince  me  that  I  ought  to  ap- 
pend a  lesson  or  moral,  to  every  tale.  If  I  did 
not  wish  to  write  them,  he  offered  to  do  it  him- 
self. 

Silverio  thought  that  literature  was  not  to  be 
composed  like  history,  according  to  Quintilian's 
definition,  ad  narrandum,  but  ad  probandum. 

When  I  gave  him  The  House  of  Aizgorri,  he 
was  outraged  by  the  optimistic  conclusion  of  the 
book,  and  advised  me  to  change  it.  According 
to  his  theory,  if  the  son  of  the  Aizgorri  family 
came  to  a  bad  end,  the  daughter  ought  to  come 
to  a  bad  end  also. 

Being  of  a  somewhat  fantastical  turn  of  mind, 
Silverio  Lanza  was  full  of  political  projects  that 
were  extraordinary. 

I  remember  that  one  of  his  ideas  was  that  we 
ought  all  to  write  the  King  a  personal  note  of  con- 
gratulation upon  his  attaining  his  majority. 

"It  is  the  most  revolutionary  thing  that  can 
be  done  at  such  a  time,"  insisted  Lanza,  appar- 
ently quite  convinced. 

"I  am  unable  to  see  it,"  I  replied. 

Azorin  and  myself  were  of  the  opinion  that  it 
—  205  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


was  a  ridiculous  proceeding  which  would  never 
produce  the  desired  result. 

Another  of  Lanza's  hobbies  was  an  aggressive 
misogyny. 

"Baroja,  my  friend,"  he  would  say  to  me, 
"you  are  too  gallant  and  respectful  in  your 
novels  with  the  ladies.  Women  are  like  laws, 
they  are  to  be  violated." 

I  laughed  at  him. 

One  day  I  was  walking  with  my  friend  Gil 
Campos  and  my  cousin  Goni,  when  we  happened 
on  Silverio  Lanza,  who  took  us  to  the  Cafe  de 
San  Sebastian,  where  we  sat  down  in  the  section 
facing  the  Plazuela  del  Angel.  It  was  a  com- 
pany that  was  singularly  assorted. 

Silverio  reverted  to  the  theme  that  women 
should  be  handled  with  the  rod.  Gil  Campos 
proceeded  to  laugh,  being  gifted  with  an  ironic 
vein,  and  made  fun  of  him.  For  my  part,  I 
was  tired  of  it,  so  I  said  to  Lanza: 

"See  here,  Don  Juan"  (his  real  name  was 
Juan  Bautista  Amoros),  "what  you  are  giving 
us  now  is  literature,  and  poor  literature  at  that. 
You  are  not,  and  I  am  not,  able  to  violate  law 
and  women  as  we  see  fit.  That  may  be  all  very 
well  for  Caesars  and  Napoleons  and  Borgias,  but 
—  206  — 


LITERARY  ENMITIES 


you  are  a  respectable  gentleman  who  lives  in  a 
little  house  at  Getafe  with  your  wife,  and  I  am 
a  poor  man  myself,  who  manages  as  best  he  may 
to  make  a  living.  You  would  tremble  in  your 
boots  if  you  ever  broke  a  law,  or  even  a  munici- 
pal ordinance,  and  so  would  I.  As  far  as 
women  are  concerned,  we  are  both  of  us  glad  to 
take  what  we  can  get,  if  we  can  get  anything, 
and  I  am  afraid  that  neither  of  us  is  ever  going 
to  get  very  much,  despite  the  fact" — I  added 
by  way  of  a  humorous  touch — "that  we  are  two 
of  the  most  distinguished  minds  in  Europe." 

My  cousin  Goni  replied  to  this  with  the  rare 
tact  that  was  characteristic  of  him,  arguing  that 
within  the  miserable  sphere  of  tangible  reality  I 
was  right,  while  Lanza  moved  upon  a  higher 
plane,  which  was  more  ideal  and  more  romantic. 
He  went  on  to  add  that  Lanza  and  he  were  both 
Berbers,  and  so  violent  and  passionate,  while  I 
was  an  Aryan,  although  a  vulgar  Aryan,  whose 
ideas  were  simply  those  which  were  shared  by 
everybody. 

Lanza  was  not  satisfied  with  my  cousin's  ex- 
planation and  departed  with  a  marked  lack  of 
cordiality. 

Since  that  time,  Silverio  has  regarded  me  with 
—  207  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


mixed  emotions,  half  friendly,  half  the  reverse, 
although  in  one  of  his  latest  books,  The  Sur- 
render of  Santiago,  he  has  referred  to  me  as  a 
great  friend  and  a  great  writer.  I  suspect,  how- 
ever, that  he  does  not  love  me. 


208  — 


XV 

THE  PRESS 
OUR  NEWSPAPERS  AND  PERIODICALS 

I  have  always  been  very  much  interested  in 
the  newspaper  and  periodical  press,  and  in  ev- 
erything that  has  any  connection  with  printing. 
When  my  father,  my  grandfather,  and  great 
grandfather  set  up  struggling  papers  in  a  pro- 
vincial capital,  it  may  be  said  that  they  were 
not  printers  in  vain. 

Because  of  my  fondness  for  newspapers  and 
magazines,  it  is  a  grief  to  me  that  the  Spanish 
press  should  be  so  weak,  so  poor,  so  pusillani- 
mous and  stiff-jointed. 

Of  late,  while  the  foreign  press  has  been  ex- 
panding and  widening  its  scope,  ours  has  been 
standing  still. 

There  is,  of  course,  an  economic  explanation 

to  justify  our  deficiency,  but  this  is  valid  only 

in  the  matter  of  quantity,  and  not  as  to  quality. 

Comparing  our  press  with  that  of  the  rest  of  the 

—  209  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


world,  a  rosary  of  negation  might  easily  be  made 
up  in  this  fashion: 

Our  press  does  not  concern  itself  with  what  is 
of  universal  interest. 

Our  press  does  not  concern  itself  with  what  is 
of  national  interest. 

Our  press  does  not  concern  itself  with  litera- 
ture. 

Our  press  does  not  concern  itself  with  philos- 
ophy. 

And  so  on  to  infinity. 

Corpus  Barga  has  told  me  that  when  Senor 
Groizard,  a  relative  of  his,  was  ambassador  to 
the  Vatican,  Leo  XIII  once  inquired  of  him,  in  a 
jargon  of  Italo-Spanish,  in  the  presence  of  the 
papal  secretary,  Cardinal  Rampolla: 

"Does  the  Senor  Ambasciatore  speak  Italian?" 

"No,  not  Italian,  although  I  understand  it  a 
little." 

"Does  the  Senor  Ambasciatore  speak  Eng- 
lish?" 

"No,  not  English,  I  do  not  speak  that,"  replied 
Groizard. 

"Does  the  Senor  Ambasciatore  speak  Ger- 
man?" 

"No  German,  no  Dutch;  not  at  all." 
—  210  — 


THE  PRESS 


"No  doubt  then  the  Sefior  Ambasciatore  speaks 
French?" 

"French?  No.  I  am  able  to  translate  it  a 
little,  but  I  do  not  speak  it." 

"Then  what  does  the  Senor  Ambasciatore 
speak?"  asked  Leo  XIII,  smiling  that  Voltairian 
smile  of  his  at  his  secretary. 

"Then  Senor  Ambasciatore  speaks  a  heavy 
back-country  dialect  called  Extramaduran,"  re- 
plied Rampolla  del  Tindaro,  bending  over  to  His 
Holiness's  ear. 

The  Spanish  press  has  made  a  resolution,  now 
of  long  standing,  to  speak  nothing  but  a  back- 
country  dialect  called  Extramaduran. 

Our  Journalists 

Our  journalists  supply  the  measure  of  our 
journals.  When  the  great  names  are  those  of 
Miguel  Moya,  Romeo,  Rocamora  and  Don  Pio, 
what  are  we  to  think  of  the  little  fellows? 

Speaking  generally,  the  Spanish  journalist  is 
interested  in  politics,  in  theatres,  in  bull  fights, 
and  in  nothing  else;  whatever  is  beyond  these, 
does  not  concern  him.  Not  even  the  feuilleton 
attracts  his  attention.  A  wooden,  highly  man- 
nered phrase  sponsored  by  Maura,  is  much  more 
—  211  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


stimulating  to  his  mind  than  the  most  sensational 
piece  of  news. 

The  Spanish  newspaper  man  is  endowed  with 
an  extraordinary  lack  of  imagination  and  of 
curiosity.  I  recall  having  given  a  friend,  who 
was  a  journalist,  a  little  book  of  Nietzsche's  to 
read,  which  he  returned  with  the  remark  that  he 
had  not  been  able  to  get  through  it,  as  it  was  in- 
sufferable drivel.  I  have  heard  the  same  opin- 
ion, or  similar  ones,  expressed  by  journalists  of 
Ibsen,  Schopenhauer,  Dostoievsky,  Stendhal  and 
all  the  most  stimulating  minds  of  Europe. 

The  wretched  Saint  Aubin,  wretched  certainly 
as  a  critic,  used  to  ridicule  Tolstoi  and  the  illness 
which  resulted  in  his  death,  maintaining  that  it 
was  nothing  more  than  an  advertisement.  The 
most  benighted  vulgarity  reigns  in  our  press. 

Upon  occasion,  vulgarity  goes  hand  in  hand 
with  an  ignorance  which  is  astounding.  I  re- 
member going  to  a  cafe  on  the  Calle  de  Alcala 
known  as  la  Maison  Doree  one  afternoon  with 
Regoyos.  Felipe  Trigo,  the  novelist,  sat  down 
at  our  table  with  a  friend  of  his,  a  journalist, 
I  believe,  from  America.  I  have  never  been  a 
friend  of  Trigo's,  and  could  never  take  any  inter- 
est either  in  the  man  or  his  work,  which  to  my 
—  212  — 


THE  PRESS 


mind  is  tiresome  and  commercially  erotic,  be- 
sides being  absolutely  devoid  of  all  charm. 

Regoyos,  who  is  effusive  by  nature,  soon  be- 
came engaged  in  conversation  with  them,  and  the 
talk  turned  upon  artistic  subjects,  in  which  he 
was  interested,  and  then  to  his  travels  abroad. 

Trigo  put  in  his  oar  and  uttered  a  number  of 
preposterous  statements.  In  particular,  he  de- 
scribed a  ship  which  had  unloaded  at  Milan. 
When  Regoyos  pointed  out  that  Milan  was  not  a 
seaport,  he  replied: 

"Probably  it  was  some  other  place  then. 
What  is  the  difference?" 

He  continued  with  a  string  of  geographical 
and  anthropological  blunders,  which  were  con- 
curred in  by  the  journalist,  while  Regoyos  and 
I  sat  by  in  amazement. 

When  we  left  the  cafe,  Regoyos  inquired : 

"Could  they  have  been  joking?" 

"No;  nonsense.  They  do  not  believe  that 
such  things  are  worth  knowing.  They  think  they 
are  petty  details  which  might  be  useful  to  rail- 
way porters.  Trigo  imagines  that  he  is  a  magi- 
cian, who  understands  the  female  mind." 

"Well,  does  he?"  asked  Regoyos,  with  na'ive 
innocence. 

—  213  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


"How  can  he  understand  anything?  The  poor 
fellow  is  ignorant.  His  other  attainments  are 
on  a  par  with  his  geography." 

The  ignorance  of  authors  and  journalists  is 
accompanied  as  a  matter  of  course  by  a  total 
want  of  comprehension.  A  number  of  years 
ago,  a  rich  young  man  called  at  my  house,  in- 
tending to  found  a  review.  During  the  conver- 
sation, he  explained  that  he  was  a  Murcian,  a 
lawyer  and  a  follower  of  Maura. 

Finally,  after  expounding  his  literary  ideas, 
he  informed  me  that  Ricardo  Leon,  who  at  that 
time  had  just  published  his  first  novel,  would, 
in  his  opinion,  come  to  be  acknowledged  as  the 
first  novelist  of  Europe.  He  also  assured  me 
that  Dickens's  humour  was  absolutely  vulgar, 
cheap  and  out  of  date. 

"I  am  not  surprised  that  you  should  think  so," 
I  said  to  him.  "You  are  from  Murcia,  you  are 
a  lawyer  and  a  Maurista;  naturally,  you  like 
Ricardo  Leon,  and  it  is  equally  natural  that  you 
should  not  like  Dickens." 

Persons  who  imagine  that  it  is  of  no  conse- 
quence whether  Milan  is  a  seaport  or  not,  who 
believe  that  Nietzsche  is  a  drivelling  ass,  and 
who  make  bold  to  tell  us  that  Dickens  is  a  cheap 
—  214  — 


THE  PRESS 


author — in  one  word,  young  gentlemen  lawyers 
who  are  partisans  of  Maura,  are  the  people  who 
provide  copy  for  our  press.  How  can  the  Span- 
ish press  be  expected  to  be  different  from  what 
it  is? 

AMERICANS 

Unquestionably,  Spaniards  suffer  much  from 
the  uncertainty  of  information  and  narrowness 
of  view  inevitable  to  those  who  live  apart  from 
the  main  currents  of  life. 

In  comparison  with  the  English,  the  Germans, 
or  the  French,  whether  we  like  it  or  not,  we  ap- 
pear provincial.  We  are  provincials  who  pos- 
sess more  or  less  talent,  but  nevertheless  we  are 
provincials. 

So  it  is  that  an  Italian,  a  Russian,  or  a  Swede 
prefers  to  read  a  book  by  a  mediocre  Parisian, 
such  as  Marcel  Prevost,  to  one  by  a  writer  of 
genuine  talent,  such  as  Galdos;  it  also  explains 
why  the  canvases  of  second  rate  painters  such  as 
David,  Gericault,  or  Ingres  are  more  highly  es- 
teemed in  the  market  than  those  of  a  painter  of 
genius  like  Goya. 

To  be  provincial  has  its  virtues  as  well  as  its 
defects.  At  times  the  provincial  are  accom- 
panied by  universal  elements,  which  blend  and 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


form  a  masterpiece.  This  was  the  case  with 
Don  Quixote,  with  the  etchings  of  Goya  and 
the  dramas  of  Ibsen.  Similarly,  among  new 
peoples,  provincial  stupidity  will  often  form  a 
blend  with  an  obtuseness  which  is  world-wide. 
The  aridness  and  infertility  characteristic  of  the 
soil  combine  with  the  detritus  of  fashion  and  the 
follies  of  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe.  The 
result  is  a  child-like  type,  petulant,  devoid  of  vir- 
tue, and  utterly  destitute  of  a  single  manly  qual- 
ity. This  is  the  American  type.  America  is 
par  excellence  the  continent  of  stupidity. 

The  American  has  not  yet  outgrown  the  mon- 
key in  him  and  remains  in  the  imitative  stage. 

I  have  no  particular  reason  to  dislike  Ameri- 
cans. My  hostility  towards  them  arises  merely 
from  the  fact  that  I  have  never  known  one  who 
had  the  air  of  being  anybody,  who  impressed  me 
as  a  man. 

You  frequently  meet  a  man  in  the  interior  of 
Spain,  in  some  small  village,  perhaps,  whose 
conversation  conveys  the  impression  that  he  is  a 
real  man,  wrought  out  of  the  ore  that  is  most 
human  and  most  noble.  At  such  times  one  be- 
comes reconciled  to  one's  country,  for  all  its 
charlatans  and  hordes  of  sharpers. 
—  216  — 


THE  PRESS 


An  Americart  never  appears  to  be  calm,  serene 
and  collected.  There  are  plenty  who  seem  to  be 
wild,  impulsive  creatures,  driven  on  by  sangui- 
nary fury,  while  others  disclose  the  vanity  of  the 
chorus  girl,  or  a  self-conceit  which  is  wholly 
ridiculous. 

My  lack  of  sympathy  for  Spanish-Americans 
extends  to  their  literary  productions.  Every- 
thing that  I  have  read  by  South  Americans,  and 
I  bear  in  mind  the  not  disinterested  encomiums 
of  Unamuno,  I  have  found  to  be  both  poor  and 
deficient  in  substance. 

Beginning  with  Sarmiento's  Facundo,  which 
is  heavy,  cheap,  and  uninteresting,  and  coming 
down  to  the  latest  productions  of  Ingenieros, 
Manuel  Ugarte,  Ricardo  Rojas  and  Contreras, 
this  is  true  without  exception. 

What  a  deluge  of  shoddy  snobbery  and  vulgar 
display  pours  out  of  America! 

It  is  often  argued  that  Spaniards  should  eulo- 
gize South  Americans  for  political  reasons. 
This  is  one  of  many  recommendations  which  pro- 
ceed from  the  craniums  of  gentlemen  who  top 
themselves  off  with  silk  hats  and  who  carry  a  lec- 
ture inside  which  is  in  demand  by  Ibero-Amer- 
ican  societies. 

—  217  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


I  have  no  faith  that  this  brand  of  politics  will 
be  productive  of  results. 

Citizens  of  old,  civilized  countries  are  still 
sensible  to  flattery  and  compliment,  but  what  are 
you  to  tell  an  Argentine  who  is  fully  convinced 
that  Argentina  is  a  more  important  country  than 
England  or  Germany,  because  she  raises  a  large 
quantity  of  wheat,  to  say  nothing  of  a  great  num- 
ber of  cows? 

Whenever  Unamuno  writes  he  decries  Kant, 
Schopenhauer  and  Nietzsche,  and  then  promptly 
eulogizes  the  mighty  General  Anibal  Perez  and 
the  great  poet  Diocleciano  Sanchez,  who  hail 
from  tihe  pampas.  To  these  fellows,  such  praise 
seems  grudging  enough.  Salvador  Rueda  him- 
self must  appear  tame  to  these  hide-stretchers. 


—  218  — 


XVI 
POLITICS 

I  have  always  been  a  liberal  radical,  an  indi- 
vidualist and  an  anarchist.  In  the  first  place,  I 
am  an  enemy  of  the  Church ;  in  the  second  place, 
I  am  an  enemy  of  the  State.  When  these  great 
powers  are  in  conflict  I  am  a  partisan  of  the 
State  as  against  the  Church,  but  on  the  day  of 
the  State's  triumph,  I  shall  become  an  enemy  of 
the  State.  If  I  had  lived  during  the  French 
Revolution,  I  should  have  been  an  international- 
ist of  the  school  of  Anacarsis  Clootz;  during  the 
struggle  for  liberty,  I  should  have  been  one  of 
the  Carbonieri. 

To  the  extent  in  which  liberalism  has  been  a 
destructive  force,  inimical  to  the  past,  it  enthralls 
me.  The  fight  against  religious  prejudice  and 
the  aristocracy,  the  suppression  of  religious  com- 
munities, inheritance  taxes — in  short,  whatever 
has  a  tendency  to  pulverize  completely  the  an- 
cient order  of  society,  fills  me  with  a  great  joy. 
On  the  other  hand,  insofar  as  liberalism  is  con- 
—  219  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


structive,  as  it  has  been  for  example  in  its  ad- 
vocacy of  universal  suffrage,  in  its  democracy, 
and  in  its  system  of  parliamentary  government, 
I  consider  it  ridiculous  and  valueless  as  well. 

Even  today,  wherever  it  is  obliged  to  take  the 
aggressive,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  good  in  liberal- 
ism is  not  exhausted ;  but  wherever  it  has  become 
an  accomplished  fact,  and  is  accepted  as  such,  it 
neither  interests  me  nor  enlists  my  admiration. 

VOTES  AND  APPLAUSE 

In  our  present  day  democracy,  there  are  only 
two  effective  sanctions:  votes  and  applause. 

Those  are  all.  Just  as  in  the  old  days  men 
committed  all  sorts  of  crimes  in  order  to  please 
their  sovereign,  now  they  commit  similar  crimes 
in  order  to  satisfy  the  people. 

And  this  truth  has  been  recognized  from 
Aristotle  to  Burke. 

Democracy  ends  in  histrionism. 

A  man  who  gets  up  to  talk  before  a  crowd 
must  of  necessity  be  an  actor.  I  have  wondered 
from  time  to  time  if  I  might  not  have  certain 
histrionic  gifts  myself;  however,  when  I  have 
put  them  to  the  test,  I  have  found  that  they  were 
—  220  — 


POLITICS 

not  sufficient.  I  have  made  six  or  seven  speeches 
during  my  brief  political  career.  I  spoke  in 
Valencia,  in  a  pelota  court,  and  I  delivered  an 
address  at  Barcelona  in  the  Casa  del  Pueblo,  in 
both  of  which  places  I  was  applauded  gener- 
ously. Nevertheless  the  applause  failed  to  in- 
toxicate me;  it  produced  no  impression  upon  me 
whatever.  It  seemed  too  much  like  mere  noise 
— noise  made  by  men's  hands,  and  having  noth- 
ing to  do  with  myself. 

I  am  not  good  enough  as  an  actor  to  be  a  poli- 
tician. 

POLITICIANS 

I  have  never  been  able  to  feel  any  enthusiasm 
for  Spanish  politicians.  We  hear  a  great  deal 
about  Canovas.  Canovas  has  always  impressed 
me  as  being  as  bad  an  orator  as  he  was  a  writer. 
When  I  first  read  his  Bell  of  Huesca,  I  could  not 
contain  myself  for  laughing.  As  far  as  his 
speeches  are  concerned,  I  have  also  read  a  few, 
and  find  them  horribly  heavy,  diffuse,  monot- 
onous and  deficient  in  style.  I  hear  that  Cano- 
vas is  a  great  historian,  but  if  so,  I  am  not  ac- 
quainted with  that  side  of  him. 

Castelar  was  unquestionably  a  man  of  excep- 
—  991  - 

ftfiJ. 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


tional  gifts  as  a  writer,  but  he  failed  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  them,  and  they  were  utterly  dissi- 
pated. He  lacked  what  most  Spaniards  of  the 
19th  Century  lacked  with  him ;  that  is,  reserve. 

When  Echegaray  was  made  Minister  of  Fi- 
nance, he  was  already  an  old  man.  A  reporter 
called  one  day  to  interview  him  at  the  Ministry, 
and  Echegaray  confessed  that  he  was  without  any 
very  clear  idea  as  to  just  what  the  duties  of  his 
office  were  to  be.  When  the  reporter  took  leave 
of  the  dramatist,  he  remarked: 

"Don  Jose,  you  are  not  going  to  be  comfort- 
able here;  it  is  cold  in  the  building.  Besides, 
the  air  is  too  fresh." 

Echegaray  replied : 

"Yes,  and  your  description  suits  me  exactly." 

This  cynically  cheap  joke  might  have  fallen 
appropriately  from  the  tongues  of  the  majority 
of  Spanish  politicians.  Among  these  male 
bailarinas,  nearly  all  of  whom  date  back  to  the 
Revolution  of  September,  we  may  find,  indeed, 
some  men  of  austere  character:  Salmeron,  Pi  y 
Margall  and  Costa.  Salmeron  was  an  inimita- 
ble actor,  but  an  actor  who  was  sincere  in  his 
part.  He  was  the  most  marvellous  orator  that  I 
have  ever  heard. 

—  222  — 


POLITICS 

As  a  philosopher,  he  was  of  no  account,  and  as 
a  politician  he  was  a  calamity. 

Pi  y  Margall,  whom  I  met  once  in  his  own 
home  where  I  went  in  company  with  Azorin, 
was  no  more  a  politician  or  a  philosopher  than 
was  Salmeron.  He  was  a  journalist,  a  popu- 
larizer  of  other  men's  ideas,  gifted  with  a  style 
at  once  clear  and  concise.  Pi  y  Margall  was 
sincere,  enamoured  of  ideas,  and  took  but  little 
thought  of  himself. 

As  to  Costa,  I  confess  that  he  was  always  an- 
tipathetic to  me.  Like  Nakens,  he  was  a  man 
who  lived  upon  the  estimation  in  which  he  was 
held  by  others,  pretending  all  the  while  that  he 
attached  no  importance  to  it  whatever.  Aguirre 
Metaca  once  told  me  that  while  he  was  connected 
with  a  paper  in  Saragossa,  he  had  solicited  an 
interview  with  Costa,  and  thereupon  Costa  wrote 
the  interview  himself,  referring  to  himself  here 
and  there  in  it  as  the  Lion  of  Graus.  I  cannot 
accept  Costa  as  a  modern  European,  intellectu- 
ally. He  was  a  figure  for  the  Cortes  of  Cadiz, 
solemn,  pompous,  becollared  and  rhetorical. 
He  was  one  of  those  actors  who  abound  in  south- 
ern countries,  who  are  laid  to  rest  in  their  graves 
without  ever  having  had  the  least  idea  that  their 
—  223  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


entire  lives  have  been  nothing  but  stage  spec- 
tacles. 

REVOLUTIONISTS 

Whether  politicians  or  authors,  the  Spanish 
revolutionists  always  smack  to  my  mind  of  the 
property  room,  and  especially  is  this  true  of  the 
authors.  Zozaya,  Morote  and  Dicenta  have 
passed  for  many  years  now  as  terrible  men,  both 
destructive  and  great  innovators.  But  how  ri- 
diculous! Zozaya,  like  Dicenta,  has  never  done 
anything  but  manipulate  the  commonplace,  fail- 
ing to  impart  either  lightness  or  novelty  to  it, 
as  have  Valera  and  Anatole  France,  succeeding 
only  on  the  other  hand  in  making  it  more 
plumbeous  and  indigestible. 

Speaking  of  Luis  Morote,  against  whom  I  urge 
nothing  as  a  man,  he  has  always  been  a  bugbear 
to  me,  the  personification  of  dullness,  of  vul- 
garity, of  everything  that  lacks  interest  and 
charm.  I  can  conceive  nothing  lower  than  an 
article  by  Morote. 

"What  talent  that  man  has!  What  a  revolu- 
tionary personality!"  they  used  to  say  in  Valen- 
cia, and  once  the  janitor  at  the  Club  added: 
"To  think  I  knew  that  man  when  he  was  only  this 
—  224  — 


POLITICS 

high!"  And  he  held  out  his  hand  about  a  metre 
above  the  ground. 

Spain  has  never  produced  any  revolutionists. 
Don  Nicolas  Estevanez,  who  imagined  himself 
an  anarchist,  would  fly  into  a  rage  if  he  read  an 
article  which  concealed  a  gallicism  in  it. 

"Do  not  bother  your  head  about  gallicisms," 
I  used  to  say  to  him.  "What  do  they  matter, 
anyway?" 

No,  we  have  never  had  any  revolutionists  in 
Spain.  That  is,  we  have  had  only  one:  Ferrer. 

He  was  certainly  not  a  man  of  great  mind. 
When  he  talked,  he  was  on  the  level  of  Morote 
arid  Zozaya,  which  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
the  level  of  everybody  else;  but  when  it  came  to 
action,  he  did  amount  to  something,  and  that 
something  was  dangerous. 

LERROUX 

My  only  experience  in  politics  was  gained 
with  Lerroux. 

One  Sunday,  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  on  com- 
ing out  of  my  house  and  crossing  the  Plaza  de 
San  Marcial,  I  observed  that  a  great  crowd  had 
gathered. 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"Lerroux  is  coming,"  they  told  me. 

I  delayed  a  moment  and  happened  on  Villar, 
the  composer,  among  the  crowd.  We  fell  to 
talking  of  Lerroux  and  what  he  might  accom- 
plish. A  procession  was  soon  formed,  which  we 
followed,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  front  of  the 
editorial  offices  of  El  Pais. 

"Shall  we  go  in?"  asked  Villar.  "Do  you 
know  Lerroux?" 

I  had  met  Lerroux  in  the  days  when  El  Prog- 
reso  was  still  published,  having  called  once  with 
Maeztu  at  his  office;  afterwards  I  saw  him  in 
Barcelona  in  a  large  shed,  which,  if  I  recall 
rightly,  went  by  the  name  of  "La  Fraternidad 
Republicana,"  and  then  I  was  accompanied  by 
Azorin  and  Junoy. 

Villar  and  I  went  upstairs  and  greeted  Lerroux 
in  the  offices  of  El  Pais. 

"Estevanez  has  spoken  of  you  to  me,"  he  said. 
"Is  he  well?" 

"Yes,  very  well." 

A  few  days  later,  Lerroux  invited  me  to  din- 
ner at  the  Cafe  Ingles.  Lerroux,  Fuente  and 
I  dined  together,  and  then  fell  to  talking. 
Lerroux  asked  me  to  join  his  party,  whereupon 
—  226  — 


POLITICS 

I  pointed  out  the  qualifications  which  were  lack- 
ing in  me,  which  were  necessary  to  a  politician. 
Shortly  after,  I  was  nominated  as  a  candidate  for 
the  City  Council,  and  I  addressed  a  number  of 
meetings,  although  always  coldly,  and  never  at 
high  tension. 

While  I  was  with  Lerroux,  I  was  never  treated 
save  with  consideration. 

Why  did  I  leave  his  party?  Chiefly  because 
of  differences  as  to  ideas  and  as  to  tactics. 
Lerroux  wished  to  organize  his  party  into  a  party 
of  law  and  order,  so  that  it  might  be  capable  of 
governing,  and  also  to  have  it  friendly  with  the 
Army.  I  was  of  the  opinion  that  it  ought  to  be  a 
revolutionary  party,  not  in  the  sense  that  I  was 
thinking  of  erecting  barricades,  but  I  wished  it 
to  contest,  to  upset  things,  and  to  protest  against 
injustice. 

What  Lerroux  wanted  was  a  party  of  orators 
who  could  speak  at  public  meetings,  a  party 
of  office-holders,  councillors,  provincial  deputies 
and  the  like,  while  I  held,  and  still  hold,  that  the 
only  efficacious  revolutionary  weapon  is  the 
printed  page.  Lerroux  was  anxious  to  transform 
the  radical  party  into  something  aristocratic  and 
Castilian;  I  desired  to  see  it  retain  its  Catalan 
—  227  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


character,  and  continue  to  wear  blouses  and  rope- 
soled  shoes. 

I  withdrew  from  the  party  for  these  reasons, 
to  which  I  may  add  Lerroux's  attitude  of  indiffer- 
ence upon  the  occasion  of  the  execution  of  the 
stoker  of  the  "Numancia." 

Not  many  months  after,  I  met  him  on  the 
Carrera  de  San  Jeronimo,  and  he  said  to  me: 

"I  have  read  your  diatribes." 

"They  were  not  directed  against  you,  but 
against  your  politics.  I  shall  never  speak  ill  of 
you,  because  I  have  no  cause." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  know  that  at  heart  you 
are  one  of  my  friends." 

AN  OFFER 

A  number  of  years  ago,  when  the  Conserva- 
tives were  in  power  and  Dato  was  President  of  the 
Ministry,  Azorin  brought  me  word  that  Sanchez 
Guerra,  then  Minister  of  the  Interior,  wished  to 
see  me  and  to  have  a  little  talk,  as  perhaps  some 
way  might  be  arranged  by  which  I  might  be  made 
deputy.  During  the  afternoon,  I  accompanied 
Azorin  to  the  Ministry,  and  we  saw  the  Minister. 
—  228  — 


POLITICS 

He  informed  me  that  he  would  like  to  have  me 
enter  the  Congress. 

"I  should  like  to  myself,"  I  replied,  "but  it 
would  appear  to  me  rather  difficult." 

"But  is  there  not  some  town  where  you  are  well 
known,  and  where  you  have  influence?" 

"No,  none  whatever." 

"How  would  you  like  then  to  be  deputy  to 
represent  the  Government?" 

"As  a  regular?" 

"Yes." 

"As  a  Conservative?" 

"Yes." 

I  thought  a  moment  and  said:  "No,  I  can 
never  be  a  Conservative,  however  it  might  suit 
my  interest  to  be  so.  Try  as  hard  as  I  might,  I 
should  never  succeed." 

"That  is  the  only  way  in  which  we  can  make 
you  deputy." 

"Well,  it  cannot  be  helped!  I  must  resign 
myself  then  to  amount  to  nothing." 

Thanking  the  Minister  for  his  kindness. 
Azorin  and  I  walked  out  of  the  Ministry  of  the 
Interior. 


229  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


SOCIALISTS 

As  for  Socialists,  I  have  never  cared  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  them.  One  of  the  most  of- 
fensive things  about  Socialists,  which  is  more 
offensive  than  their  pedantry,  than  their  charla- 
tanry, than  their  hypocrisy,  is  their  inquisitorial 
instinct  for  prying  into  other  people's  lives. 
Whether  Pablo  Iglesias  travels  first  or  third 
class,  has  been  for  years  one  of  the  principal 
topics  of  dispute  between  Socialists  and  their 
opponents. 

Fifteen  years  ago  I  was  in  Tangier,  where  I 
had  been  sent  by  the  Globo,  and,  upon  my  return, 
a  newspaper  man  who  had  socialistic  ideas,  re- 
proached me: 

"You  talk  a  great  deal  about  the  working  man, 
but  I  see  you  were  living  in  the  best  hotel  in 
Tangier." 

I  answered:  "In  the  first  place,  I  have  never 
spoken  of  the  workingman  with  any  fervour. 
Furthermore,  I  am  not  such  a  slave  as  to  be  too 
cowardly  to  take  what  life  offers  as  it  comes, 
as  you  are.  I  take  what  I  can  that  I  want,  and 
When  I  do  not  take  it,  it  is  because  I  cannot  get 
it." 

—  230  — 


POLITICS 

LOVE    OF   THE   WORKINGMAN 

To  gush  over  the  workingman  is  one  of  the 
commonplaces  of  the  day  which  is  utterly  false 
and  hypocritical.  Just  as  in  the  18th  century 
sympathy  was  with  the  simple  hearted  citizen,  so 
today  we  talk  about  the  workingman.  The  term 
workingman  can  never  be  anything  but  a  gram- 
matical common  denominator.  Among  work- 
ingmen,  as  among  the  bourgeoisie,  there  are  all 
sorts  of  people.  It  is  perfectly  true  that  there 
are  certain  characteristics,  certain  defects,  which 
may  be  exaggerated  in  a  given  class,  because  of 
its  special  environment  and  culture.  The  dif- 
ference in  Spanish  cities  between  the  labouring 
man  and  the  bourgeoisie  is  not  very  great.  We 
frequently  see  the  workingman  leap  the  barrier 
into  the  bourgeoisie,  and  then  disclose  himself 
as  a  unique  flower  of  knavery,  extortion  and  mis- 
directed ingenuity.  Deep  down  in  the  hearts  of 
our  revolutionists,  I  do  not  believe  that  there  is 
any  real  enthusiasm  for  the  workingman. 

When  the  bookshop  of  Fernando  Fe  was  still 

in  the  Carrera  de  San  Jeronimo,  I  once  heard 

Blasco  Ibanez  say  with  the  cheapness  that  is  his 

distinguishing  trait,  laughing  meanwhile  ostenta- 

—  231  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


tiously,  that  a  republic  in  Spain  would  mean  the 
rule  of  shoemakers  and  of  the  scum  of  the  streets. 


THE  CONVENTIONALIST  BARRIOVERO 

Barriovero,  a  conventionalist,  according  to 
Grandmontagne — yes,  and  how  keen  the  scent 
of  this  American  for  such  matters! — attended  the 
opening  of  a  radical  club  in  the  Calle  del  Prin- 
cipe with  a  party  of  friends.  We  were  all  drink- 
ing champagne.  Like  other  revolutionists  and 
parvenus  generally,  Lerroux  is  a  victim  of  the 
superstition  of  champagne. 

"Aha,  suppose  those  workingmen  should  see 
us  drinking  champagne!"  suggested  some  one. 

"What  of  it?"  asked  another. 

"I  only  wish  for  my  part,"  Barriovero  inter- 
rupted with  a  show  of  sentiment,  "that  the  work- 
ingman  could  learn  to  drink  champagne." 

"Learn  to  drink  it?"  I  burst  out,  "I  see  no 
difficulty  about  that.  He  could  drink  champagne 
as  well  as  anything  else." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Barriovero  the  conventional- 
ist, very  gravely.     "He  has  the  superstition  of 
the  peasant;  he  thinks  he  must  leave  enough 
wine  to  cover  the  bottom  of  the  glass." 
—  232  — 


POLITICS 

I  doubt  whether  this  observation  will  attract 
the  attention  of  any  future  Plutarch,  although  it 
might  very  well  do  so,  as  it  expresses  most 
clearly  the  distinction  which  exists  in  the  minds 
of  our  revolutionists  between  the  workingman 
and  the  young  gentleman. 

ANARCHISTS 

I  have  had  a  number  of  acquaintances  among 
anarchists.  Some  of  them  are  dead;  the  major- 
ity of  the  others  have  changed  their  ideas.  It 
is  apparent  nowadays  that  the  anarchism  of 
Reclus  and  Kropotkin  is  out  of  date,  and  en- 
tirely a  thing  of  the  past.  The  same  tendencies 
will  reappear  under  other  forms,  and  present 
new  aspects.  Among  anarchists,  I  have  known 
Elysee  Reclus,  whom  I  met  in  the  editorial  offi- 
ces of  a  publication  called  U  Humanite  Nouvelle, 
which  was  issued  in  Paris  in  the  Rue  des  Saints- 
Peres.  I  have  also  met  Sebastien  Faure  during 
a  mass  meeting  organized  in  the  interests  of  one 
Guerin,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  a  house  in  the 
Rue  de  Chabrol  some  eighteen  or  twenty  years 
ago.  I  have  had  relations  with  Malatesta  and 
Tarrida  del  Marmol.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  both 
—  233  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


these  anarchists  escorted  me  one  afternoon  from 
Islington,  where  Malatesta  lived,  to  the  door  of 
the  St.  James  Club,  one  of  the  most  aristocratic 
retreats  in  London,  where  I  had  an  appointment 
to  meet  a  diplomat. 

As  for  active  anarchists,  I  have  known  a  num- 
ber, two  or  three  of  whom  have  been  dynamiters. 

THE  MORALITY  OF  THE  ALTERNATING 
PARTY  SYSTEM 

The  only  difference  between  the  morality  of 
tihe  Liberal  party  and  that  of  the  Conservative 
party  is  one  of  clothes.  Among  Conservatives 
the  most  primitive  clout  seems  to  be  slightly  more 
ample,  but  not  noticeably  so. 

The  preoccupations  of  both  are  purely  with 
matters  of  style.  The  only  distinction  is  that 
the  Conservatives  make  off  with  a  great  deal  at 
once,  while  the  Liberals  take  less,  but  do  it  often. 

This  is  in  harmony  with  the  law  of  mechanics 
according  to  which  what  is  gained  in  force  is  lost 
in  velocity  and  what  is  gained  in  intensity  is  lost 
in  expansion.  After  all,  no  doubt  morality  in 
politics  should  be  a  negligible  quantity.  Hon- 
est, upright  men  who  hearken  only  to  the  voice  of 
—  234  — 


POLITICS 

conscience,  never  get  on  in  politics,  neither  are 
they  ever  practical,  nor  good  for  anything. 

To  succeed  in  politics,  a  certain  facility  is 
necessary,  to  which  must  be  added  ambition  and 
a  thirst  for  glory.  The  last  is  the  most  innocent 
of  the  three. 

ON  OBEYING  THE  LAW 

It  is  safe,  it  seems  to  me,  to  assume  the  fol- 
lowing axioms:  First,  to  obey  the  law  is  in 
no  sense  to  attain  justice;  second,  it  is  not  pos- 
sible to  obey  the  law  strictly,  thoroughly,  in  any 
country  in  the  world. 

That  obeying  the  law  has  nothing  to  do  with 
justice  is  indisputable,  and  this  is  especially  true 
in  the  political  sphere,  in  which  it  is  easy  to  point 
to  a  rebel,  such  as  Martinez  Campos,  who  has 
been  elevated  to  the  plane  of  a  great  man  and 
who  has  been  immortalized  by  a  statue  upon  his 
death,  and  then  to  a  rebel  such  as  Sanchez  Moya, 
who  was  merely  shot.  The  only  difference  be- 
tween the  men  was  in  the  results  attained,  and  in 
the  manner  of  their  exit. 

Hence  I  say  that  Lerroux  was  not  only  base, 
but  obtuse  and  absurdly  wanting  in  human  feel- 
—  235  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


ing  and  revolutionary  sympathy,  when  he  con- 
curred in  the  execution  of  the  stoker  of  the 
"Numancia." 

If  law  and  justice  are  identical  and  to  comply 
with  the  law  is  invariably  to  do  justice,  then 
what  can  be  the  distinction  between  the  progress- 
ive and  the  conservative?  On  the  other  hand, 
the  revolutionist  has  no  alternative  but  to  hold 
that  law  and  justice  are  not  the  same,  and  so  he 
is  obliged  to  subscribe  to  the  benevolent  charac- 
ter of  all  crimes  which  are  altruistic  and  social 
in  their  purposes,  whether  they  are  reactionary 
or  anarchistic  in  tendency. 

Now  the  second  axiom,  which  is  to  the  effect 
that  there  is  no  city  or  country  in  the  world  in 
which  it  is  possible  to  obey  the  law  thoroughly,  is 
also  self-evident.  A  certain  class  of  common 
crimes,  such  as  robbery,  cheating  and  swindling, 
murder  and  the  like,  are  followed  by  a  species 
of  automatic  punishment  in  all  quarters  of  the 
civilized  world,  in  spite  of  exceptions  in  specific 
cases,  which  result  from  the  intervention  of 
political  bosses  and  similar  influences;  but  there 
are  other  offenses  which  meet  with  no  such  auto- 
matic punishment.  In  these  pardon  and  penalty 
are  meted  out  in  a  spirit  of  pure  opportunism. 
—  236  — 


POLITICS 

I  was  discussing  Zurdo  Olivares  one  day  with 
Emiliano  Iglesias  in  the  office  of  El  Radical, 
when  I  asked  him: 

"How  was  it  that  Zurdo  Olivares  could  save 
himself  after  playing  such  an  active  role  in  the 
tragic  week  at  Barcelona?" 

"Zurdo's  salvation  was  indirectly  owing  to 
me,"  replied  Iglesias. 

"But,  my  dear  sir!" 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"How  did  that  happen?" 

"Very  naturally.  There  were  three  cases  to 
be  tried;  one  was  against  Ferrer,  one  against 
Zurdo,  and  another  against  me.  A  friend  who 
enjoyed  the  necessary  influence,  succeeded  in 
quashing  the  case  against  me,  as  a  matter  of  per- 
sonal favour,  and  as  it  seemed  rather  barefaced 
to  make  an  exception  alone  in  my  favour,  it  was 
decided  to  include  Zurdo  Olivares,  who,  thanks 
to  the  arrangement,  escaped  being  shot." 

"Then,  if  an  influential  friend  of  yours  had  not 
been  a  member  of  the  Ministry,  you  would  both 
have  been  shot  in  the  moat  at  Montjuich?" 

"Beyond  question." 

And  this  took  place  in  the  heyday  of  Conserva- 
tive power. 

—  237  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


THE  STERNNESS  OF  THE  LAW 

There  are  men  who  believe  that  the  State,  as 
at  present  constituted,  is  the  end  and  culmination 
of  all  human  effort.  According  to  this  view,  the 
State  is  the  best  possible  state,  and  its  organiza- 
tion is  considered  so  perfect  that  its  laws,  disci- 
pline and  formulae  are  held  to  be  sacred  and 
immutable  in  men's  eyes.  Maura  and  all  con- 
servatives must  be  reckoned  in  this  group,  and 
Lerroux  too,  appears  to  belong  with  them,  as  he 
holds  discipline  in  such  exalted  respect. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  persons  who  be- 
lieve that  the  entire  legal  structure  is  only  a  tem- 
porary scaffolding,  and  that  what  is  called  jus- 
tice today  may  be  thought  savagery  tomorrow,  so 
that  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom  not  to  look  so  much 
to  the  rule  of  the  present  as  to  the  illumination  of 
the  future. 

Since  it  is  impossible  to  effect  in  practice  auto- 
matic enforcement  of  the  law,  especially  in  the 
sphere  of  political  crimes,  because  of  the  un- 
limited power  of  pardon  vested  in  the  hands  of 
our  public  men,  it  would  seem  judicious  to  err 
upon  the  side  of  mercy  rather  than  upon  that  of 
severity.  Better  fail  the  law  and  pardon  a  re- 
—  238  — 


POLITICS 

pulsive,  bloody  beast  such  as  Chato  de  Cuqueta, 
than  shoot  an  addle-headed  unfortunate  such  as 
Clemente  Garcia,  or  a  dreamer  like  Sanchez 
Moya,  whose  hands  were  innocent  of  blood. 

It  was  pointed  out  a  long  time  ago  that  laws 
are  like  cobwebs;  they  catch  the  little  flies,  and 
let  the  big  ones  pass  through. 

How  very  severe,  how  very  determined  our 
politicians  are  with  the  little  flies,  but  how  ex- 
tremely affable  they  are  with  the  big  ones! 


—  239  — 


XVII 
MILITARY  GLORY 

No,  I  'have  not  made  up  my  mind  upon  the 
issues  of  this  war.  If  it  were  possible  to  deter- 
mine what  is  best  for  Europe,  I  should  of  course 
desire  it,  but  this  I  do  not  know,  and  so  I  am 
uncertain.  I  am  preoccupied  by  the  conse- 
quences which  may  follow  the  war  in  Spain. 
Some  believe  that  there  will  be  an  increase  of 
militarism,  but  I  doubt  it. 

Many  suppose  that  the  crash  of  the  present  war 
will  cause  the  prestige  of  the  soldier  to  mount 
upward  like  the  spray,  so  that  we  shall  have  noth- 
ing but  uniforms  and  clanking  of  spurs  through- 
out the  world  very  shortly,  while  the  sole  topics 
of  conversation  will  be  mortars,  batteries  and 
guns. 

In  my  judgment  those  who  take  this  standpoint 
are  mistaken.  The  present  conflict  will  not  es- 
tablish war  in  higher  favour. 

Perhaps  its  glories  may  not  be  diminished 
utterly.  It  may  be  that  man  must  of  necessity 
—  240  — 


MILITARY  GLORY 


kill,  burn,  and  trample  under  foot,  and  that  these 
excesses  of  brutality  are  symptoms  of  collective 
health. 

Even  if  this  be  so,  we  may  be  sure  that  mili- 
tary glory  is  upon  the  eve  of  an  eclipse. 

Its  decline  began  when  the  professional  armies 
became  nothing  more  than  armed  militia,  and 
from  the  moment  that  it  became  apparent  that  a 
soldier  might  be  improvised  from  a  countryman 
with  marvellous  rapidity. 

THE  OLD-TIME  SOLDIER 

Formerly,  a  soldier  was  a  man  of  daring  and 
adventure,  brave  and  audacious,  preferring  an 
irregular  life  to  the  narrowing  restraints  of  civil 
existence. 

The  old  time  soldier  trusted  in  his  star  with- 
out scruple  and  without  fear,  and  imagined  that 
he  could  dominate  fate  as  the  gambler  fancies 
that  he  masters  the  laws  of  chance. 

Valour,  recklessness,  together  with  a  certain 
rough  eloquence,  a  certain  itch  to  command,  lay 
at  the  foundation  of  his  life.  His  inducements 
were  pay,  booty,  showy  uniforms  and  splendid 
horses.  The  soldier's  life  was  filled  with  adven- 
—  241  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


ture,  he  conquered  wealth,  he  conquered  women, 
and  he  roamed  through  unknown  lands. 

Until  a  few  years  ago,  the  soldier  might  have 
been  summed  up  in  three  words:  he  was  brave, 
ignorant  and  adventurous. 

The  warrior  of  this  school  passed  out  of  Eu- 
rope about  the  middle  of  the  19th  Century.  He 
became  extinct  in  Spain  at  the  conclusion  of  our 
Second  Civil  War. 

Since  that  day  there  has  been  a  fundamental 
change  in  the  life  of  the  soldier. 

War  has  taken  on  greater  magnitude,  while  the 
soldier  has  become  more  refined,  land  it  is  not  to 
be  denied  that  both  war  and  the  fighting  man  are 
losing  their  traditional  prestige. 

DOWN  GOES  PRESTIGE 

The  causes  of  this  diminution  of  prestige  are 
various.  Some  are  moral,  such  as  the  increased 
respect  for  human  life,  and  the  disfavour  with 
which  the  more  aggressive,  crueler  qualities  have 
come  to  be  regarded.  Others,  however,  and  per- 
haps these  are  of  more  importance,  are  purely 
esthetic.  Through  a  combination  of  circum- 
stances, modern  warfare,  although  more  tragic 
—  242  — 


MILITARY  GLORY 


than  was  ancient  warfare,  and  even  more  deadly, 
nevertheless  has  been  deprived  of  its  spectacular 
features. 

Capacity  for  esthetic  appreciation  has  its 
limits.  Nobody  is  able  to  visualize  a  battle  in 
which  two  million  men  are  engaged;  it  can  only 
be  imagined  as  a  series  of  smaller  battles.  In 
one  of  these  modern  battles,  substantially  all  the 
traditional  elements  which  we  have  come  to  as- 
sociate with  war,  have  disappeared.  The  horse, 
which  bulks  so  largely  in  the  picture  of  a  battle 
as  it  presents  itself  to  our  minds,  scarcely  retains 
any  importance  at  all ;  for  the  most  part,  automo- 
biles, bicycles  and  motor  cycles  have  taken  its 
place.  These  contrivances  may  be  useful,  but 
they  do  not  make  the  same  appeal  to  the  popular 
imagination. 

SCIENCE  AND  THE  PICTURESQUE 

Upon  taking  over  warfare,  science  stripped  it 
of  its  picturesqueness.  The  commanding  gen- 
eral no  longer  cavorts  upon  his  charger,  nor 
smiles  as  the  bullets  whistle  about  him,  while  he 
stands  surrounded  by  an  ornamental  general 
staff,  whose  breasts  are  covered  with  ribbons  and 
—  243  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


medals  representing  every  known  variety  of 
hardware,  whether  monarchical  or  republican. 

Today  the  general  sits  in  a  room,  surrounded 
by  telephones  and  telegraph  apparatus.  If  he 
smiles  at  all,  it  is  only  before  the  camera. 

An  officer  scarcely  ever  uses  a  sword,  nor  does 
he  strut  about  adorned  with  all  his  crosses  and 
medals,  nor  does  he  wear  the  resplendent  uni- 
forms of  other  days.  On  the  contrary,  his  uni- 
form is  ugly  and  dirt  coloured,  and  innocent  of 
devices. 

This  officer  is  without  initiative,  he  is  subordi- 
nated to  a  fixed  general  plan ;  surprises  on  either 
one  side  or  the  other,  are  almost  out  of  the 
question. 

The  plan  of  battle  is  rigid  and  detailed.  It 
permits  neither  originality  nor  display  of  indi- 
viduality upon  the  part  of  the  generals,  the  lesser 
officers,  or  the  private  soldiers.  The  individual 
is  swallowed  up  by  the  collective  force.  Out- 
standing types  do  not  occur;  nobody  develops 
the  marked  personality  of  the  generals  of  the 
old  school. 

Besides  this,  individual  bravery,  when  not  re- 
inforced by  other  qualities,  is  of  less  and  less 
consequence.  The  bold,  adventurous  youth  who, 
—  244  — 


MILITARY  GLORY 


years  ago,  would  have  been  an  embryo  Murat, 
Messina,  Espartero  or  Prim,  would  be  rejected 
today  to  make  room  for  a  mechanic  who  had 
the  skill  to  operate  a  machine,  or  for  an  aviator 
or  an  engineer  who  might  be  capable  of  solving 
in  a  crisis  a  problem  of  pressing  danger. 

The  prestige  of  the  soldier,  even  upon  the  bat- 
tle field,  has  fallen  today  below  that  of  the  man 
of  science. 

WHAT  WE  NEED  TODAY 

There  are  still  same  persons  of  a  romantic 
turn  of  mind  who  imagine  that  none  but  the  sol- 
dier who  defends  his  native  land,  the  priest 
who  appeases  the  divine  wrath  and  at  the  same 
time  inculcates  the  moral  law,  and  the  poet  who 
celebrates  the  glories  of  the  community,  are 
worthy  to  be  leaders  of  the  people. 

But  the  man  of  the  present  age  does  not  desire 
any  leaders. 

He  has  found  that  when  someone  wears  red 
trousers  or  a  black  cassock,  or  is  able  to  write 
shorter  lines  than  himself,  it  is  no  indication  that 
he  is  any  better,  nor  any  braver,  nor  any  more 
moral,  nor  capable  of  deeper  feeling  than  he. 
—  245  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


The  man  of  today  will  have  no  magicians,  no 
high  priests  and  no  mysteries.  He  is  capable  of 
being  his  own  priest,  his  own  soldier  when  it  is 
necessary,  and  of  fighting  for  himself;  he  re- 
quires no  specialists  in  courage,  in  morals,  nor 
in  the  realm  of  sentiment  and  feeling.  What 
we  need  today  are  good  men  and  wise  men. 

OUR  ARMIES 

Prussian  militarism  has  been  explained  upon 
the  theory  that  it  was  a  development  consequent 
upon  a  realization  of  the  benefits  which  had 
accrued  to  Prussia  through  war.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  however,  it  is  not  possible  to  explain  all 
militarism  in  this  way.  Certainly  in  Spain 
neither  wars  nor  the  army  have  been  of  the 
slightest  benefit  to  the  country. 

If  we  consider  the  epoch  which  goes  by  the 
name  of  contemporary  history,  that  is  to  say  from 
the  French  Revolution  to  the  present  time,  we 
shall  perceive  immediately  that  we  have  not  been 
over  fortunate. 

The  French  Republic  declared  war  upon  us  in 
1793.  A  campaign  of  astuteness,  a  tactical  war- 
fare was  waged  by  us  upon  the  frontiers,  upon 
—  246  — 


MILITARY  GLORY 


occasion  not  without  success,  until  finally  the 
French  army  grew  strong  enough  to  sweep  us 
back,  and  to  cross  the  Ebro. 

We  took  part  in  the  battle  of  Trafalgar  in 
1805.  Spain  presented  a  fine  appearance,  she 
made  a  mighty  gesture  with  her  Gravinas,  her 
Churrucas  and  her  Alavas,  but  the  battle  itself 
was  a  disaster. 

In  1808  the  War  of  Independence  broke  out, 
providing  another  splendid  exhibition  of  popular 
fervour.  In  this  war,  the  regular  Army  was  the 
force  which  accomplished  least.  The  war  took 
its  character  from  the  guerrillas,  from  the  dwel- 
lers in  the  towns.  The  campaign  was  directed 
by  Englishmen.  The  Spanish  army  suffered 
more  defeats  than  it  won  victories,  while  its  ad- 
ministrative and  technical  organization  was  de- 
plorable. The  intervention  of  Angouleme  fol- 
lowed in  1823.  The  Army  was  composed  of 
liberal  officers,  but  it  contained  no  troops,  so 
that  all  they  ever  did  was  to  retire  before  the 
enemy,  as  he  was  more  numerous  and  more 
powerful. 

The  Spanish  cause  in  America  was  hopeless 
before  the  fighting  began.  The  land  was  enor- 
mous, troops  were  few,  and  in  large  measure 

-  247- 
fj  1 1 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


composed  of  Indians.  What  the  English  were 
never  able  to  do  in  the  fulness  of  their  power, 
was  not  to  be  accomplished  by  Spaniards  in  their 
decadence.  Our  First  Civil  War,  which  was 
fierce,  terrible,  and  waged  without  quarter,  called 
into  being  a  valorous  liberal  army,  and  soldiers 
sprang  up  of  the  calibre  of  Espartero,  Zurbano 
and  Narvaez,  but  simultaneously  a  powerful 
Carlist  army  was  organized  under  leaders  of 
military  genius,  such  as  Zumalacarregui  and 
Cabrera.  Victory  for  either  side  was  impos- 
sible, and  the  war  ended  in  compromise. 

The  Second  Civil  War  also  resulted  in  a  system 
of  pacts  and  compromises  far  more  secret  than 
the  Convention  of  Vergara.  The  Cuban  war  and 
the  war  in  the  Philippines,  as  afterwards  the  war 
with  the  United  States,  were  calamitous,  while 
the  present  campaign  in  Morocco  has  not  one 
redeeming  feature. 

From  the  War  of  the  French  Revolution  to  this 
very  day,  the  African  War  has  been  the  only  one 
in  which  our  forces  have  met  with  the  slightest 
success. 

Nevertheless,  our  soldiers  aspire  to  a  position 
of  dominance  in  the  country  equal  to  that  at- 
-24,8- 

ffro 


MILITARY  GLORY 


tained  by  the  French  soldiers  subsequent  to  Jena, 
and  by  the  Germans  after  Sedan. 

A  WORD  FROM  KUROKI,  THE  JAPANESE 

"Gentlemen,"  said  General  Kuroki,  speaking 
at  a  banquet  tendered  to  him  in  New  York,  "I 
cannot  aspire  to  the  applause  of  the  world,  be- 
cause I  have  created  nothing,  I  have  invented 
nothing.  I  am  only  a  soldier." 

If  these  are  not  his  identical  words,  they  con- 
vey the  meaning  of  them. 

This  victorious,  square-headed  Mongolian  had 
gotten  into  his  head  what  the  dolichocephalic 
German  blond,  who,  according  to  German  anthro- 
pologists is  the  highest  product  of  Europe,  and 
the  brachycephalic  brunette  of  Gaul  and  the 
Latin  and  the  Slav  have  never  been  able  to  un- 
derstand. 

Will  they  ever  be  able  to  understand  it?  Per- 
haps they  never  will  be  able. 


—  249  — 


EPILOGUE 

When  I  sat  down  to  begin  these  pages,  some- 
what at  random,  my  intention  was  to  write  an  au- 
tobiography, accompanying  it  with  such  com- 
ments as  might  suggest  themselves.  Looking 
continually  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  I  have 
lost  my  way,  and  this  book  is  the  result. 

I  have  not  attempted  to  correct  or  embellish 
it.  So  many  books,  trimmed  up  nicely  and  well- 
padded,  go  to  their  graves  every  year  to  be  for- 
gotten forever,  that  it  has  hardly  seemed  worth 
while  to  bedeck  this  one.  I  am  not  a  believer  in 
maquillage  for  the  dead. 

Now  one  word  more  as  to  the  subject  of  the 
book,  which  is  I. 

If  I  were  to  live  two  hundred  years  at  the  very 
least,  I  might  be  able  to  realize,  by  degrees,  the 
maximum  programme  which  I  have  laid  down 
for  my  life.  As  it  scarcely  seems  possible  that  a 
man  could  live  to  such  an  age,  which  is  attained 
only  by  parrots,  I  find  myself  with  no  alternative 
—  250  — 


EPILOGUE 


but  to  limit  myself  to  a  small  portion  of  the 
introductory  section  of  my  minimum  programme, 
and  this,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  content  to  do. 

With  hardship  and  effort,  and  the  scanty 
means  at  my  command,  I  have  succeeded  in  ac- 
quiring a  house  and  garden  in  my  own  country, 
a  comfortable  retreat  which  is  sufficient  for  my 
needs.  I  have  gathered  a  small  library  in  the 
house,  which  I  hope  will  grow  with  time,  besides 
a  few  manuscripts  and  some  curious  prints.  I 
do  not  believe  that  I  have  ever  harmed  any  man 
deliberately,  so  my  conscience  does  not  trouble 
me.  If  my  ideas  are  fragmentary  and  ill-con- 
sidered, I  have  done  my  best  to  make  them  sound, 
clear,  and  complete,  so  that  it  is  not  my  fault  if 
they  are  not  so. 

I  have  become  independent  financially.  I  not 
only  support  myself,  but  I  am  able  to  travel  occa- 
sionally upon  the  proceeds  of  my  pen. 

A  Russian  publishing  house,  another  in  Ger- 
many, and  another  in  the  United  States  are 
bringing  out  my  books,  paying  me,  moreover, 
for  the  right  of  translation;  and  I  am  satisfied. 
I  have  friends  of  both  sexes  in  Madrid  and  in 
the  Basque  provinces,  who  seem  already  like  old 
friends,  because  I  have  grown  fond  of  them.  As 
—  251  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


I  face  old  age,  I  feel  that  I  am  walking  upon 
firmer  ground  than  I  did  in  my  youth. 

In  a  short  time,  what  a  few  years  ago  the 
sociologists  used  to  call  involution — that  is,  a 
turning  in — will  begin  to  take  place  in  my  brain ; 
the  cranial  sutures  will  become  petrified,  and  an 
automatic  limitation  of  the  mental  horizon  will 
soon  come. 

I  shall  accept  involution,  petrification  of  the 
sutures  and  limitation  with  good  grace.  I  have 
never  rebelled  against  logic,  nor  against  nature, 
against  the  lightning  or  the  thunder  storm.  No 
sooner  does  one  gain  the  crest  of  the  hill  of  life 
than  at  once  he  begins  to  descend  rapidly.  We 
know  a  great  deal  the  moment  that  we  realize 
that  nobody  knows  anything.  I  am  a  little 
melancholy  now  and  a  little  rheumatic;  it  is  time 
to  take  salicylates  and  to  go  out  and  work  in  the 
garden — a  time  for  meditation  and  for  long 
stories,  for  watching  the  flames  as  they  flare  up- 
ward under  the  chimney  piece  upon  the  hearth. 

I  commend  myself  to  the  event.  It  is  dark 
outside,  but  the  door  of  my  house  stands  open. 
Whoever  will,  be  he  life  or  be  he  death,  let  him 
come  in. 

—  252  — 


EPILOGUE 


PALINODE  AND  FRESH  OUTBURST  OF  IRE 

A  few  days  ago  I  left  the  house  with  the  manu- 
script of  this  book,  to  which  I  have  given  the 
name  of  Youth  and  Egolatry,  on  my  way  to  the 
post  office. 

It  was  a  romantic  September  morning,  swathed 
in  thick,  white  mist.  A  blue  haze  of  thin  smoke 
rose  upward  from  the  shadowy  houses  of  the 
neighbouring  settlement,  vanishing  in  the  mist. 
Meanwhile,  the  birds  were  singing,  and  a  rivulet 
close  by  murmured  in  the  stillness. 

Under  the  influence  of  the  homely,  placid 
country  air,  I  felt  my  spirit  soften  and  grow  more 
humble,  and  I  began  to  think  that  the  manuscript 
which  I  carried  in  my  hand  was  nothing  more 
than  a  farrago  of  foolishness  and  vulgarity. 

The  voice  of  prudence,  which  was  also  that  of 
cowardice,  cautioned  me: 

"What  is  the  good  of  publishing  this?  Will 
it  bring  you  reputation?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Have  you  anything  to  gain  by  it?" 

"Probably  not  either." 

"Then,  why  irritate  and  offend  this  one  and 
—  253  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


that  by  saying  things  which,  after  all,  are  no- 
body's business?" 

To  the  voice  of  prudence,  however,  my 
habitual  self  replied: 

"But  what  you  have  written  is  sincere,  is  it 
not?  What  do  you  care,  then,  what  they  think 
about  it?" 

But  the  voice  of  prudence  continued: 

"How  quiet  everything  is  about  you,  how 
peaceful!  This  is  life,  after  all,  and  the  rest  is 
madness,  vanity  and  vain  endeavour." 

There  was  a  moment  when  I  was  upon  the 
point  of  tossing  my  manuscript  into  the  air,  and 
I  believe  I  should  have  done  so,  could  I  have 
been  sure  that  it  would  have  dematerialized  itself 
immediately  like  smoke ;  or  I  would  have  thrown 
it  into  the  river,  if  I  had  felt  certain  that  the  cur- 
rent would  have  swept  it  out  to  sea. 

This  afternoon  I  went  to  San  Sebastian  to  buy 
paper  and  salicylate  of  soda,  which  is  less  agree- 
able. 

A  number  of  public  guards  were  riding  to- 
gether in  the  car  on  the  way  over,  along  the  fron- 
tier. They  were  discussing  bull  fighters,  El 
—  254  — 


EPILOGUE 


Gallo  and  Belmonte,  and  also  the  disorders  of 
the  past  few  days. 

"Too  bad  that  Maura  and  La  Cierva  are  not 
in  power,"  said  one  of  them,  who  was  from 
Murcia,  smiling  and  exhibiting  his  decayed 
teeth.  "They  would  have  made  short  work  of 
this." 

"They  are  in  reserve  for  the  finish,"  said  an- 
other, with  the  solemnity  of  a  pious  scamp. 

Returning  from  San  Sebastian,  I  happened 
on  a  family  from  Madrid  in  the  same  car.  The 
father  was  weak,  jaundiced  and  sour-visaged ; 
the  mother  was  a  fat  brunette,  with  black  eyes, 
who  was  loaded  down  with  jewels,  while  her 
face  was  made  up  until  it  was  brilliant  white,  in 
colour  like  a  stearin  candle.  A  rather  good 
looking  daughter  of  between  fifteen  and  twenty 
was  escorted  by  a  lieutenant  who  apparently  was 
engaged  to  her.  Finally,  there  was  another  girl, 
between  twelve  and  fourteen,  flaccid  and  lively 
as  a  still-life  on  a  dinner  table.  Suddenly  the 
father,  who  was  reading  a  newspaper,  exclaimed : 

"Nothing  is  going  to  be  done,  I  can  see  that; 
they  are  already  applying  to  have  the  revolu- 
tionists pardoned.  The  Government  will  do 
nothing." 

—  255  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


"I  wish  they  would  kill  every  one  of  them," 
broke  in  the  girl  who  was  engaged  to  the  lieuten- 
ant. "Think  of  it!  Firing  on  soldiers!  They 
are  bandits." 

"Yes,  and  with  such  a  king  as  we  have!"  ex- 
claimed the  fat  lady,  with  the  paraffine  hue,  in 
a  mournful  tone.  "It  has  ruined  our  summer. 
I  wish  they  would  shoot  every  one  of  them." 

"And  they  are  not  the  only  ones,"  interrupted 
the  father.  "The  men  who  are  behind  them,  the 
writers  and  leaders,  hide  themselves,  and  then 
they  throw  the  first  stones." 

Upon  entering  the  house,  I  found  that  the  final 
proofs  of  my  book  had  just  arrived  from  the 
printer,  and  sat  down  to  read  them. 

The  words  of  that  family  from  Madrid  still 
rang  in  my  ears:  "I  wish  they  would  kill  every 
one  of  them!" 

However  one  may  feel,  I  thought  to  myself,  it 
is  impossible  not  to  hate  such  people.  Such 
people  are  natural  enemies.  It  is  inevitable. 

Now,  reading  over  the  proofs  of  my  book, 
it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  not  strident  enough.  I 
could  wish  it  were  more  violent,  more  anti-mid- 
dle class. 

I  no  longer  hear  the  voice  of  prudence  seduc- 
—  256  — 


EPILOGUE 


ing  me,  as  it  did  a  few  days  since,  to  a  palinode 
in  complicity  with  a  romantic  morning  of  white 
mist. 

The  zest  of  combat,  of  adventure  stirs  in  me 
again.  The  sheltered  harbour  seems  a  poor 
refuge  in  my  eyes, — tranquillity  and  security 
appear  contemptible. 

"Here,  boy,  up,  and  throw  out  the  sail!  Run 
the  red  flag  of  revolution  to  the  masthead  of  our 
frail  craft,  and  forth  to  sea!" 

Itzea,  September,  1917. 


257  — 


APPENDICES 
SPANISH  POLITICIANS 
ON  BAROJA'S  ANARCHISTS 
NOTE 


SPANISH  POLITICIANS 

The  Spanish  alternating  party  system  has  prevailed 
as  a  national  institution  since  the  restoration  of  the 
monarchy  under  Alfonso  XII.  Ostensibly  it  is  based 
upon  manhood  suffrage,  and  in  the  cities  this  is  the 
fact,  but  in  the  more  remote  districts  the  balloting 
plays  but  small  part  in  the  returns.  Upon  the  disso- 
lution of  the  Cortes  and  the  resignation  of  a  ministry, 
one  of  the  two  great  parties — the  liberal  party  and  the 
conservative  party — automatically  retires  from  power, 
and  the  other  succeeds  it,  always  carrying  the  ensuing 
elections  by  convenient  working  majorities. 

Spain  is  a  poor  country.  During  the  half  century 
previous  to  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  she  was 
a  victim  of  internecine  strife  and  factional  warfare. 
She  is  not  poor  naturally,  but  her  energy  has  been 
drawn  off;  she  has  been  bled  white,  and  needs  time 
to  recuperate.  The  Spaniards  are  a  practical  people. 
They  realize  this  condition.  Even  the  lower  classes 
are  tired  of  fine  talking.  No  people  have  heard  more, 
and  none  have  profited  less  by  it.  The  country  is  not 
like  Russia,  a  fertile  field  for  the  agitator;  it  looks 
coldly  upon  reform.  Such  response  as  has  been  ob- 
tained by  the  radical  has  come  from  the  labour  centres 
under  the  stimulus  of  foreign  influences,  and  more 
particularly  from  Barcelona,  where  the  problem  is 
political  even  before  it  is  an  individual  one. 
—  261  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


For  this  reason  the  Spanish  Republicans  are  in  large 
part  theorists.  The  land  has  been  disturbed  suffi- 
ciently. They  would  hesitate  to  inaugurate  radical 
reforms,  if  power  were  to  be  placed  in  their  hands, 
while  the  possession  of  power  itself  might  prove  not 
a  little  embarrassing.  Behind  the  monarchy  lies  the 
republic  of  1873,  behind  Canovas  and  Castelar,  Pi  y 
Margall;  the  republic  has  merged  into  and  was,  in  a 
sense,  the  foundation  of  the  constitutional  system  of 
today.  Even  popular  leaders  such  as  Lerroux  are 
quick  to  recognize  this  fact,  and  govern  themselves  ac- 
cordingly. The  lack  of  general  education  today, 
would  render  any  attempt  at  the  establishment  of  a 
thorough-going  democracy  insecure. 

Francisco  Ferrer,  although  idealized  abroad,  has 
been  no  more  than  a  symptom  in  Spain.  Such  men 
even  as  Angel  Guimera,  the  dramatist,  a  Catalan 
separatist  who  has  been  under  surveillance  for  years, 
or  Pere  Aldavert,  who  has  suffered  imprisonment  in 
Barcelona  because  of  his  opinions,  while  they  speak 
for  the  proletariat,  nevertheless  have  had  scant  sym- 
pathy for  Ferrer's  ideas.  It  would  be  interesting  to 
know  just  to  what  extent  these  commend  themselves  to 
Pablo  and  Emiliano  Iglesias  and  the  professed  politi- 
cal Socialists. 

Of  the  existing  parties,  the  Liberal,  being  more  or 
less  an  association  of  groups  tending  to  the  left,  is 
the  least  homogeneous.  Its  most  prominent  leader  of 
late  years  has  been  the  Conde  de  Romanones,  who 

—  262  — 


APPENDICES 


may  scarcely  be  said  to  represent  a  new  era.     He  has 
shared  responsibility  with  Eduardo  Dato. 

Among  Conservatives,  the  chief  figure  has  long  been 
Antonio  Maura.  He  is  not  a  young  man.  Politically, 
he  represents  very  much  what  the  cordially  detested 
Weyler  did  in  the  military  sphere.  But  Maurism  to- 
day is  a  very  different  thing  from  the  Maurism  of 
fifteen  years  ago,  or  of  the  moat  of  Montjuich.  The 
name  of  Maura  casts  a  spell  over  the  Conservative 
imagination.  It  is  the  rallying  point  of  innumerable 
associations  of  young  men  of  reactionary,  aristocratic 
and  clerical  tendencies  throughout  the  country,  while 
to  progressives  it  symbolizes  the  oppressiveness  of  the 
old  regime. 

ON  BAROJA'S  ANARCHISTS 

Baroja's  memoirs  afford  convincing  proof  of  his 
contact  with  radicals  of  all  sorts  and  classes,  from 
stereotyped  republicans  such  as  Barriovero,  or  the 
Argentine  Francisco  Grandmontagne,  correspondent  of 
La  Prensa  of  Buenos  Aires,  to  active  anarchists  of  the 
type  of  Mateo  Morral. 

Morral  was  an  habitue  of  a  cafe  in  the  Calle  de  Al- 
cala  at  Madrid,  where  Baroja  was  accustomed  to  go 
with  his  friends  to  take  coffee,  and,  in  the  Spanish 
phrase,  to  attend  his  tertulia.  Morral  would  listen  to 
these  conversations.  After  his  attempt  to  assassinate 
the  King  and  Queen  in  the  Calle  Mayor  on  their 
return  from  the  Royal  wedding  ceremony,  Baroja 
—  263  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


went  to  view  Morral's  body,  but  was  refused  admit- 
tance. A  drawing  of  Morral  was  made  at  the  time, 
however,  by  Ricardo  Baroja. 

In  this  connection,  Jose  Nakens,  to  whom  the  author 
pays  his  compliments  on  an  earlier  page,  was  sub- 
jected to  an  unusual  experience.  Nakens,  who  was  a 
sufficiently  mild  gentleman,  had  taken  a  needy  radical 
into  his  house,  and  had  given  him  shelter.  This  per- 
sonage made  a  point  of  inveighing  to  Nakens  con- 
tinually against  Canovas  del  Castillo,  proposing  to 
make  way  with  him.  When  the  news  of  the  assassina- 
tion of  Canovas  was  cried  through  the  city,  Nakens 
knew  for  the  first  that  his  visitor  had  been  in  earnest. 
He  was  none  other  than  the  murderer  Angiolillo. 

This  anecdote  became  current  in  Madrid.  Years 
afterwards  when  the  prime-minister  Canalejas  was 
shot  to  death,  the  assassin  recalled  it  to  mind,  and 
repaired  to  the  house  of  Nakens,  who  saw  in  dismay 
for  the  second  time  his  radical  theories  put  to 
violent  practical  proof.  The  incident  proved  ex- 
tremely embarrassing. 

The  crime  of  Morral  forms  the  basis  of  Baroja's 
novel  La  Dama  Errante.  He  has  also  dealt  with 
anarchism  in  Aurora  Roja  (Red  Dawn). 

The  mutiny  on  the  ship  "Numancia,"  referred  to  in 
the  text,  was  an  incident  of  the  same  period  of  unrest, 
which  was  met  with  severe  repressive  measures. 


—  264  — 


YOUTH  AND  EGOLATRY 


NOTE 

The  Madrid  Ateneo  is  a  learned  society  maintain- 
ing a  house  on  the  Calle  del  Prado,  in  which  is  in- 
stalled a  private  library  of  unusual  excellence.  It 
has  been  for  many  years  the  principal  depository  of 
modern  books  in  Spain,  and  a  favourite  resort  of 
scholars  and  research-workers  of  the  capital. 


—  265  — 


THE    WORKS    OF    PIO    BAROJA 

Pio  Baroja,  recognized  by  the  best  critics  as  the 
foremost  living  Spanish  novelist,  is  without  doubt  the 
chief  exponent  of  that  ferment  of  political  and  social 
thought  in  Spain  which  had  its  inception  in  the  cata- 
clysm of  1898,  and  which  gave  rise  to  the  new  move- 
ment in  Spanish  literature. 

Of  course  this  "modern  movement"  was  not  actu- 
ally born  in  1898.  It  dates  back  as  far  as  Galdos, 
who  is  in  spirit  a  modern.  But  it  marked  the  turn- 
ing point.  Benavente  the  dramatist,  Azorin  the  critic, 
Ruben  Dario  the  poet,  Pio  Baroja  the  novelist,  all 
date  from  this  period,  belonging  to  and  of  the  new 
generation,  and,  together  with  the  Valencian  Blasco 
Ibanez,  form  the  A  B  C  of  modern  Spanish  culture. 

"Baroja  stands  for  the  modern  Spanish  mind  at  its 
most  enlightened,"  says  H.  L.  Mencken.  "He  is  the 
Spaniard  of  education  and  worldly  wisdom,  detached 
from  the  mediaeval  imbecilities  of  the  old  regime  and 
yet  aloof  from  the  worse  follies  of  the  demagogues 
who  now  rage  in  the  country  .  .  .  the  Spaniard  who, 
in  the  long  run,  must  erect  a  new  structure  of  society 
upon  the  half  archaic  and  half  Utopian  chaos  now 
reigning  in  the  peninsular." 

Pio  Baroja  was  born  in  1872  at  San  Sebastian,  the 
most  fashionable  summer  resort  of  Spain,  the  Spanish 
'Summer  Capital."  Baroja's  father  was  a  noted 


mining  engineer,  and  while  without  reputation  as  a 
man  of  letters  he  was  an  occasional  contributor  to  va- 
rious periodicals  and  dailies.  He  had  destined  his 
son  for  the  medical  profession,  and  Pio  studied  at 
Valencia  and  Madrid,  where  he  received  his  degree. 
He  started  practice  in  the  small  town  of  Cestona,  the 
type  of  town  which  figures  largely  in  his  novels. 

But  the  young  doctor  soon  wearied  of  his  profes- 
sion, and  laying  aside  his  stethoscope  forever,  he  re- 
turned to  Madrid,  where,  in  partnership  with  an  older 
brother,  he  opened  a  bakery.  However  he  was  no 
more  destined  to  be  a  cook  than  a  doctor,  so,  encour- 
aged by  interested  friends,  he  succeeded  in  getting  a 
few  articles  and  stories  accepted  by  various  Madrid 
papers.  It  was  not  long  before  he  won  distinction  as 
a  journalist,  and  he  presently  abandoned  baking  en- 
tirely, devoting  all  his  energies  to  writing. 

His  first  novel,  Camina  de  Perfection,  published 
in  1902,  was  received  with  but  little  enthusiasm, 
However  he  closely  followed  it  with  several  others, 
and  Spain  soon  realized  that  she  had  a  new  writer  of 
unusual  merit.  Today  he  is  pre-eminent  among  con- 
temporary Spanish  authors.  His  books  have  been 
translated  into  French,  German,  Italian  and  English. 

Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Senor  Baroja's  authorized  pub- 
lisher in  the  English-speaking  countries,  has  published 
to  date  two  of  the  novels: 

THE   CITY    OF   THE   DISCREET.    Translated   by 

Jacob  S.  Fassett,  Jr.     $2.00  net. 
Around  Cordova,  the  fascinating  and  romantic  "city 


of  the  discreet,"  Baroja  has  spun  an  adventurous  tale. 
He  gives  you  a  vivid  picture  of  the  city  with  her  tor- 
tuous streets,  ancient  houses  with  their  patios  and  tiled 
roofs  and  of  her  "discreet"  inhabitants.  In  a  style 
that  is  polished  where  Ibanez'  is  crudely  vigorous,  and 
with  sympathy  and  understanding,  he  portrays  Quen- 
tin,  the  natural  son  of  a  Marquis  and  a  woman  of 
humble  birth;  Pacheco,  the  ambitious  bandit  chief; 
Don  Gil  Sabadia,  the  garrulous  and  convivial  antiqua- 
rian, and  a  host  of  other  characters. 

"Unforgettable  pictures  are  spread  in  a  rich  back- 
ground for  the  action — Cordova  at  twilight,  with  its 
spires  showing  against  the  violet  sky,  the  narrow 
streets  with  white  houses  leaning  toward  each  other, 
its  squares  with  sturdy  beggars  squatting  around  and 
its  gardens  heavy  with  the  scent  of  orange  blossoms, 
where  old  fountains  quietly  drip." — Indianapolis 
News. 

"This  fine  novel  .  .  .  shows  us  the  best  features  of 
the  modern  Spanish  realistic  school." — The  Bookman. 

CAESAR  OR  NOTHING.    Translated  by  Louis  How. 

$2.00  net. 

This  is  the  story  of  Caesar  Moncada,  a  brilliantly 
clever  young  Spaniard,  who  sets  out  to  reform  his 
country,  to  modernize  it  and  its  government.  In  de- 
picting Caesar's  preparation  in  Rome,  where  his  uncle 
is  a  Cardinal,  for  the  career  he  has  planned  for  him- 
self, Senor  Baroja  etches  vividly  and  entertainingly  a 
typical  cosmopolitan  society — witty,  worldly,  prosper- 
ous and  cynical.  The  second  part  of  the  book  de- 
scribes Caesar's  political  fight  in  Castro  Duro. 


"Not  only  Spain's  greatest  novelist,  but  his  greatest 
book.  It  is  the  most  important  translation  that  has 
come  out  of  Spain  in  our  time  in  the  field  of  fiction 
and  it  will  be  remembered  as  epochal." — JOHN  GAR- 
RETT  UNDERBILL,  Representative  in  America  of  the  So- 
ciety of  Spanish  Authors  of  Madrid. 

"Ranks  Baroja  as  a  master  of  fiction,  with  a  keen 
sense  of  character,  constructive  power  and  an  active, 
dynamic  style." — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

"I  read  Caesar  or  Nothing  with  a  profound  admi- 
ration for  its  power  and  skill.  It  is  a  great  novel, 
which  you  deserve  our  thanks  for  publishing." — HAR- 
OLD J.  LASKI,  of  Harvard  University. 

"A  brilliant  book — amazingly  clever  and  humorous 
in  its  earlier  chapters,  gradually  accumulating  depth 
as  it  moves  along  until  it  becomes  the  stuff  of  tragedy 
at  the  close.  The  character  he  has  created  in  Caesar 
Moncada  is  one  of  the  few  really  notable  portrayals  in 
recent  fiction." — Chicago  Post. 

Translations  of  three  other  novels  by  Baroja  are  in 
preparation  in  the  competent  hands  of  Dr.  Isaac  Gold- 
berg. The  first,  LA  DAMA  ERRANTE,  will  be 
ready  in  the  Fall  of  1920.  Probable  price,  $2.00. 


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